A Note On Bravery
by Darcy Roe
Summary: At long last war had come to England. Even Downton is not untouchable. Full summary inside. Winner of a Highclere Award!
1. I Hell Breaks Loose

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

I. Hell Breaks Loose

Summer ~ 1914

I very much regret to announce that we are at war with Germany.

Lord and Lady Grantham's guests dispersed at a snails pace after Lord Grantham's announcement.

Indeed, most stayed late into the evening, and for a while the servants stood, at attention with them on the spacious lawns of Downton Abbey, halted in a dazed stupor. For a small moment, the bridge between the classes seemed to be infinitely smaller then normal; a well precipitated and ultimately short lived illusion.

Suddenly, William had dropped a silver tray, laden with champagne filled flutes, onto the skirts of a lady who jumped, startled with a shriek. What could be described as all hell swiftly broke loose.

"Sorry! Sorry!" William cried. "Daisy, run for a towel, will ya? I am sorry, My Lady!"

Other ladies began to wail: frightened, high-pitched squawks and clamors flying from their months, like the calls of large, colorful birds whom had just had their feathers ruffled the wrong way.

"Good heavens," Sybil exclaimed, her voice lowered to a harsh whisper that rose and fell slightly as she gasped, breathing in and out unsteadily. Branson found her hand with his, fingers applying gentle pressure, the intimacy hidden by the clamor and commotion surrounding them.

~o~O~o~

_Life moves on._ Mrs. Hughes reminded herself, as she stood at the bottom of the steps leading below stairs, another realm practically. She waited for Mr. Carson to appear. 

The guests eventually collected themselves; after several hours of bewildered fear, pushing the whole of Downton into a state of high anxiety that made her feel fidgety. Elise despised the feeling.

Some of the aristocracy left immediately, returning home to be with loved ones which – and this was a grim line of thought – might soon become an extinct opportunity. Many chose to remain surprisingly, and prey on Lord Robert's hospitality and Lady Cora's quiet strength.

She and Carson rallied and marshaled their troops, seeing that the well-heeled friends of their employers were made comfortable; offering beverages and food in the Ladies' Drawing room were the women sat conversing tearfully (some sobs were heard occasionally from above) and in the dinning room. The gentlemen gathered to drink, smoke and discuss the ramifications of the proclamation around the expensive, oak-polished dinning table; they sounded with each drink and each passing hour more like a mock war counsel out of fictitious piece then middle and lower English nobility.

Discussing what needed to be done… What effect the war would take…

_Good Lord, we are at war with Germany, and the beautiful decorations are still up, _she thought, wistfully just as the door opened and Mr. Carson descended, looking weary.

"You look beaten about the brow," she observed, kindly. "Well? Are they all settled?"

He sighed. "For now. Many of the Ladies and Lords are ready to retire." Mr. Carson drew a breath deep for withen his chest, exhaling loudly. Mrs. Hughes observed his shoulders tighten and his spine straightened; he was steeling himself, she could tell – sorrow written in the tightly furrowed lines of his forehead and jowls. "Lord Grantham suggests that we prepare the staff for…whatever is about to happen. He predicts an earlier start to everyone's day tomorrow. Best get the family and their guests settled and then send everyone off to bed."

"Of course," Mrs. Hughes said, with forced bravado. Her fingers shook, so she clasped her hands tightly behind her back. "Life moves on, even in war time."

He gave her a fleeting smile and they moved quietly into the next room, standing in the doorway of the small dinning room reserved for the house staff, though almost everyone – cooking staff, grooms, and gardeners – gathered around the table. They did not rise, unusual on any other day, the low, nervous chatter died off, all eyes focusing on them.

"Lynch, put that foul cigarette out this instant!" Mr. Carson snapped, angrily.

The groom looking sheepish, snuffed out his fag and murmured a hurried apology.

Anna lifted her gaze immediately to Mrs. Hughes;' steady, determined, a question in her brown eyes though her face had lost all its' pallor. The stubborn line of her jaw spoke of her courage, strength that would be greatly needed in the coming days.

Mr. Bates sat besides her on the left in the accustomed spot, and Daisy sat to her right, her shoulder's slumped forward, head resting on Anna's shoulders, sitting half in the older girl's lap.

Her eyes were red, she had been crying on and off all afternoon like an English summer (vexing, especially for Mrs. Patmore). Daisy appeared to have quieted, finally. William stood behind her directly to the side, a respectable distance. His face contorted into a pinched expression; it seemed that he was not sure were he should be. They were not courting let alone walking out. _Not yet, anyway._

_Mayhap never._

The kitchen next door was quiet, the chatter of the scullery maids, the din of pots and pans silenced. Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Bird murmuring, their heads bent, cheek to cheek, over the salvers of rich food.

And Gwen…Mrs. Hughes looked at the redheaded girl and felt slightly more crestfallen then she had a moment before. The girl had just gotten that blasted secretary post. _Poor dove. Poor doves_, she amended slightly.

"Mr. Bates, Lord Grantham needs you. William," Mr. Carson began, his rich baritone more authoritarian then usual. "I need you to find Thomas. He's not quit yet and I need an extra hand. Yours to."

"As a v-valet, Mr. Carson?" He stuttered.

"Is their another second-footman named William?"

The lad flushed. "Right away, Mr. Carson," he said, tripping over his feet in haste. Mrs. Hughes had the distinct impression that the boy was trying hard not to grin at the special elevation, and the thought made her want to crack a smile in spite of herself.

"Right," Mrs. Hughes said, eyeing Daisy. "I think I'll send the younger girl's to bed now, Mr. Carson, as this has obviously been to much."

"Aye," he agreed.

"Come on, Daisy," Anna said, rising, her arm winding securely about the girl's waste. Anna was the only thing keeping Daisy off the floor, Mrs. Hughes realized. "It'll all seem better after a good night's sleep."

"Anna, after you're done, I need you, Gwen, and O'Brien to help me settle the ladies and their company."

Anna nodded, solemnly.

Mrs. Hughes hopped the girl's rationality would stay firmly anchored, she would need another clear mind in the turbulent days to come.

~o~O~o~

Anna settled Daisy in her small room off the side of the scullery, tucking the sheets in tight around her small, trembling form. She fetched a bowl of water, warmed it, and then - with her handkerchief - smoothed the grime and tears from Daisy's face. "Sleep now; you'll make yourself sick with this worry."

"But I can't sleep, Anna, its all so barmy!" Daisy exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows. "Were at war with Germany. All the men will be gone, and we'll be all alone surviving on farthings!"

The older girl laid a calm hand on Daisy's shoulder, gently forcing her to lay back down on the pillow. "Listen to me Daisy, and listen good, Downton's stood through more then one war." She brushed a piece of stray fringe away. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes will make sure we have more then farthings to live on, and so will his Lordship, I'd say."

Daisy's upper lip quivered, she drew a shuddering breath, stammering, "B-but I s-spent ages fannyin' around w-with Thomas, a-and now that I know I fancy William he's goin' to go off to war."

"If William does decide to go – and he clearly hasn't made up his mind, Daisy – then all of Downton will be proud. It's the honorable thing to do…." Anna paused, one hand resting on the mattress the other on Daisy's far head, knowing her words were not to comforting. "Listen here Daisy Coleman, and listen good, you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, so you best get some sleep." Anna stroked her hair, soothingly. "It will all seem better in the morning. I promise."

Once Daisy drifted off, Anna joined Gwen and O'Brien in the hall; the latter wreaking of fags. Anna gazed intently at the bitter maid. Since Lady Cora's slip getting out of the bath (since the miscarriage) O'Brien appeared to be visibly shaken. Her dark eyes were perhaps a shade darker, devoid of the malicious glint, though her tongue, sharper then normal, made up for that in spades. Anna thought briefly of Lady Mary; biting comments were often another kind of defense.

Mrs. Hughes appeared, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "We'll settle the guests first, between us three. Gwen, I know you aren't a ladies' maid but you'll do just fine. O'Brien, after you've seen to Lady Grantham, come and help us. She has requested that we see to the guests' needs first, but Mr. Carson has orders straight from his Lordship to get her to bed immediately."

~o~O~o~

"Has Mrs. Crawley gone?" The Dowager Countess inquired of O'Brien. The Lancashire woman nodded as she removed the last of the lady's fine garments and reached for the elaborate nightgown laid out upon the bed. "Yes, M'Lady. She left with Mr. Crowley about an hour ago."

Violet gave a dry little chuckle. "In all the…in all the commotion I had not noticed."

_That and the smelling salts I was running to fetch all night._ O'Brien lifted the nightgown over the Dowager Countess' head. _God forbid she lifts a finger. I already have to be exposed to the sight of her wrinkled carcass._

"Edith was a godsend today," the woman prattled on, sitting before the intricately carved vanity. O'Brien picked up the silver handled brush and began to smooth the grey hair out of it's snarls. "Sybil kept disappearing – but that girl has always been flighty…full of wild ideas, suffrage and such nonsense – and Mary was so downtrodden she did not even attempt to play hostess. Sulking like that in public," the Dowager Countess scoffed. "I would think with Cora's recent ordeal she would feel duty bound to step into the role of Lady of the House by de facto."

O'Brien nodded politely. _Stop blathering on you miserable aged bat and belt up_. She tied off the plait, neatly. "Finished, Ladyship. Can I fetch you anything else?"

Violet smiled, "No," and as their gazes met in the glass the normal beady eyes softened. "Is Lady Grantham…?"

"She went to bed half-an-hour ago," O'Brien supplied, a pang of guilt resounding in her soul.

The Dowager Countess moaned. "What might have happened if you had not been there I do not want to think, and they way you have attended to her every need, practically been at her side every day, going beyond the call of duty" she smiled. "She holds you in high esteem; swears she would not know how to get by without you. Thank you, O'Brien."

"Not at all, your Ladyship." O'Brien felt her skin tingle, neck and cheeks unpleasantly hot, burning shame; evidence of her betrayal. _They might as well brand my face. It'd be less painful then living with this guilt._

The pain echoed throughout as she picked up the dirty cloths for laundry and hurriedly left the room.

~o~O~o~

"Do you require anything else, My Lord?" Mr. Bates asked.

Lord Grantham stared at his reflection, pajama clad, slippers on feet, and robe closed. Ready for bed. "No. Thank you, Bates." He smiled over his shoulder.

"Good night, My Lord."

"Good night, Bates."

"Will you reenlist?" Mr. Bates stood, hand on the doorknob, cane hooked over his forearm, laundry folded neatly and tucked under his elbow.

Slowly, Lord Grantham turned and surveyed him closely, eyes unveiled as he studied John who allowed his face to relax. Only honesty and transparency would do here. "I don't know. Will you reenlist?"

Mr. Bates thought of Anna. Her sweet continence and psyche, her fierce loyalty. _She deserves a better man then you, John Bates. _"If it is the right thing to do then yes I suppose I will, or at least I will endeavor too." He nodded towards his cane.

Lord Grantham shook his head. "I am sorry, that was tactless of me."

"Not at all. Good night, My Lord."

"Good night, Mr. Bates."

Bates closed the door firmly behind him, though he knew the Earl would fallow a moment later and tread the short distance to his wives chambers.

It was a warming notion that a couple could be steadfastly in love after more then two decades together. He thought briefly of Vera, of Anna, and his mother who loved his father despite forty-five years of matrimony and loved him still though the old bugger had been in his grave for the past six years.

His mother also loved Anna.

"Mr. Bates."

Speak of the devil.

He turned, Anna stepped out from behind a draping.

"Why are you hiding?"

"I was waiting for you, if you must know," she flushed, "and Mrs. Hughes came by…"

"Ahh, I see."

She nodded in silent agreement. "Here let me take that for you," she gestured towards the bundle of laundry.

Bates gave her a weathering smile. "I can manage, Anna."

She returned his smile, arms stubbornly outstretched. "I never implied you couldn't." Mr. Bates relented. Anna held the laundry close to her chest, arms wrapped around it in a nervous clutching movement. "I can't believe it, yet," she confessed as they moved down the hall.

"It wont seem real until…"

"Until something truly offal happens," she finished for him. "Something close to home."

They stopped in their tracks, standing closer then proper in the middle of the upstairs corridor, the grand stairway that led into the entryway dark before them. No one else was about; moment was long overdue. He took a step closer, heart beating a tattoo into his ribs; it ached so badly to always be so close yet never able to reach out and stroke her face or take her hand.

Partly his fault. John had fought an uphill battle, pointless sometimes tactless, but he was not fighting anymore. Defiantly throwing up the white flag now as their lips met, softly, gently, ever so sweetly and exquisitely.

~o~O~o~

Mrs. Hughes stood, rooted to the spot for the second time that day. Directly across from her in the entrance to the opposite corridor, Anna and Mr. Bates were kissing, unhurriedly and unabashed at such a public display of affection.

She ducked quickly back into the gloom of the corridor, extinguishing the candle. Elsie knew she could walk the house blindfolded if she had to, anyway.

_They wouldn't be kissing where they thought other people may happen to see them. They thought they were quiet alone._ She was the intruder, the one violating their privacy.

But it was good that she had. This odd romance raised many alarming questions.

How long had this been going on?

At what stage had it progressed to?

Could this be the first kiss?_ No_. Anna and Mr. Bates' behavior seemed much too comfortable for new sweethearts. The pair sometimes acted like a well-settled couple, confident in the other's affections…

Yes, this had been going on long before tonight and it had gone much further she suspected then a few kisses and heavily veiled looks.

They were in love.

Love did not bloom over night, it was a precious flower that needed to be carefully nurtured over a great period of time before it was ripe.

Mrs. Hughes ran a hand over her face distressed at the unintentional metaphor: she felt fidgety. She hated feeling fidgety.

Just when Mr. Bates had been cleared - esteemed himself even - she would have to report him to Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson would be honor bound to tell his Lordship, and Lord Grantham would most certainly sack both Anna and Mr. Bates.

And to make matters worse, they were at war with Germany.

~o~O~o~

Robert Crowley waited a respectable length of time before he opened his door and slipped into the corridor beyond, carefully shutting it, only releasing the latch when the door had relined with the frame.

He should not have been so quiet, he should have waited longer: at the end of the hall John and Anna stood, figures glowing in a beam of moonlight, lips sealed together.

His insides froze, heart dropping into his bowels.

They separated with a soft, barley audible pop. Lord Crowley dived behind a nearby drape (ridiculous hiding in his own house from his own servants).

"Anna…" Bates sounded shaken.

From the crack in between the drapes Robert saw his old comrade-in-arms take Anna's hand in his, gently pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm.

"I know," she whispered, sounding just as shaken. "I know, Mr. Bates."

They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Shh…" Anna whispered, hands covering her mouth in an attempt to stifle her mirth. "Mrs. Hughes is still about, we don't want to be discovered."

Bates straightened, his smile visible from a distance. "No. Imagine that?"

"Just when you've been cleared and deemed respectable," Anna's voice carried a hint of a tease.

"Respectable?" He offered her his arm with a flourish; Anna nearly collapsed into hysterics again. "Then I should escort you back to the servant's quarters, My Lady."

"Why thank you, Sir," Anna said with mock seriousness, picking up the train of her dress and imitating a curtsey. "I would be delighted."

Robert waited until the sound of their steps faded before moving from his hiding spot. He slipped quietly into his wives room, disrobing and sliding under the covers, weak and slightly nauseous with what he just witnessed.

Cora rolled over. "Darling…" she murmured.

"You waited up." It was a statement not a question.

"Of course I did." She settled against him, head pillowed on his chest as their arms locked securely around each other; easy as breathing. They were at war with Germany, but this at least remained the same.

**TBC…**

* * *

**a/n:** I found this section yesterday to my extreme delight. This story will have multiple chapters, but will be short (no more then five or six at the most). A Note On Bravery is the first in the Cor Blimey Series.

A Note on Bravery Roaring Life The Opposite of Good Value Into the Fire Once More

Anyway, please review, a healthy dose of criticism is good for ones constitution.

**P.S.** How long does the seven episode take? How many months, years, etc. I'm having a hard time figuring it out.


	2. II Mobilizing

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

**Special Thanks:** To the amazing StuckInThePast who has been kind enough to act as beta.

* * *

**II. Mobilizing**

_August 5 - 31, 1914_

The next day found Lord Grantham at his desk in the library, a flood of correspondences occupying his time. Since early that morning, mail had arrived in never ceasing waves, from friends and acquaintances alike seeking his advice.

Sighing tiredly, Robert picked up the next envelope, opening it with an uninterested flick.

A moment later the jewel encrusted letter opener fell from his hand, a dull clunk resounding as silver met with carpet.

Lord Thatcher Fischer - old, angry, General Fischer - informed him that the "boys" upstairs remembered him from the "good old days." He quoted their praises; described their necessity for "a bloke like him," and rounded it off by informing Robert that his prescience was required in London by September 1.

Relievedly, not for deployment, the War Office wanted to employ experts in military strategy.

_Of course_, Robert mused, leaning back in his chair, head lulling, _I would have contacted the old sod looking for something to do._

Still, that did not make matters any simpler.

Someone – Carson, he suspected, or maybe Edith – knocked on the door.

"Enter," he called, resigned to the prospect of more bad news. The guests had left, the colorful decorations – the majority of which were the worse for wear – taken down, and the precious few that could be revived and restored, sealed back in their boxes, Mrs. Hughes lamenting over the majority of ribbons that could not be saved.

She, along with the rest of his house, seemed besieged by a terrible atmosphere; Robert felt as if all of Downton Abbey stood on a cliff, their fates balanced precariously while a great wind blew, capable of sweeping them at any moment to safety or death.

Cora and Mary were so beside themselves that both had taken to their beds; the former, exhausted, retiring the moment her guest departed, while the latter could not be persuaded to rise from hers. Robert understood why his wife remained infirm; Mary however had no one to blame but herself.

It was unfortunate, but so be it.

The door to the library opened; Bates appeared. Robert, who had rung only a moment ago, was surprised by his quick arrival.

"M'lord," Bates said, inclining his head respectfully and crossing the room.

Robert stood, mentally bracing himself before starting the cumbersome task at hand. "Please, shut the door, I want a word – a private word," he added unnecessarily.

If Bates found the request odd he gave no indication, limping to the door as fast as possible and closing it quietly. He turned, hand still on the knob, reminding Robert of their conversation from the night before.

Robert surveyed Bates, his ex-batman, current valet, but forever his comrade-in-arms, who looked a bit less haggard and a great deal more frightened then the rest of the servants. _He has much more at stake to lose_, Robert reflected. There was a glow in his eyes, in his face; the corners of his mouth inexplicably upturned a fraction of an inch suggesting that Bates was struggling to conceal a secret joy.

Robert wished Bates did not look so dammed happy, it made this business all the harder.

Lords and employers were not supposed to be secretly thrilled that their valet was taking up with the head housemaid.

Before the telegram, before his guests clambered into their motor cars and sped off, Robert lay in bed, awake hours earlier then he should be, plagued with thoughts of his wife, his daughters, his heir, and his estate. After strong deliberation, Lord Grantham decided the only situation under his control was this: a romantic affair between two of his servants.

Of all the absurd things, but no reason for either party to lose their place. Anna always behaved professionally, well liked above and below stairs, and Bates…

War and death forged such powerful bonds, comradely ties impossible to break. In the midst of alien South Africa, John Bates acted as a touchstone, a confidant who endured the same horrors, and the horrors they had borne witness to…

"My lord?"

With a start Robert realized he must have been silent for sometime, starring intently into space.

"Is it about the war?" Bates prompted.

Robert sighed, crossing to the window and looking out into the damp, dreary grounds. "No. The issue at hand is much closer to home."

Bates limped over, keeping a respectful distance. They watched William trip and land sprawling in the mud at Thomas' feet, dropping an armful of tablecloths he had been hurrying to get inside.

Thomas quickly assumed a choleric face and began an irate scolding as William leapt to his feet. A moment later Anna charged into view, hands on her hips, clearly animated from a distance of two stories up.

Robert observed faint emotion flicker in Bates eyes. He steeled himself. "It has to do – this serious matter – with two members of my staff."

He imagined he saw Bates stiffen, in the faded light from the window he noticed small beads of perspiration gathering at Bates' brow line. Robert attributed it to nerves; he knew Robert had caught him out. Bates expression remained passive, whatever the valet was feeling or thinking Robert was unable to read him.

Once, before the shrapnel pierced Bates' leg – a piece of artillery taken for him, a sacrifice undergone out of friendship rather than duty, something in there shared history which they never spoke of – he could have done so in an instant. _True friends are made in times such as these._

"Oh, my lord?" Bates asked casually.

"Yes," Robert said flatly, "Oh."

"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes?"

Robert turned his head so fast his neck cracked – painfully. It took him a moment to realize that Bates, serious Bates, had just made a joke.

"If your Lordship must hold someone accountable," Bates turned away from the window (Mrs. Hughes herself had just entered the fray, an overexcited Daisy trailing behind her), "Let it be me who receives the punishment." He matched Robert's gaze, "Whatever form that may take."

"Oh, John," Robert cried exasperated. The use of his Christian name caused the man to start slightly. "I'm not of the mind to sack either of you."

Bates looked even more alarmed. "You aren't?" he asked cautiously, as if this was all some delicious dream to good to be tangible.

Robert exhaled heavily, hoping he was not going to regret this decision. "No."

Bates gazed at him, slightly fazed, through narrowed eyes, "Thank you- "

"Don't thank me yet," Robert interrupted. "I expect nothing less then professionalism form both of you. I can tell you Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson won't be pleased; however, as I outrank both, there will be nothing they can do. I know you are an honorable man, so I won't waste time telling you to respect a girl like Anna."

"No, my lord," Bates agreed, "I would never do anything to discredit her or the faith she has in me."

"I don't doubt that, Bates." He glanced at the telegram. "There is another matter I need to discuss with you. If you have a moment?"

"Certainly," Bates said.

~o~O~o~

Half-an-hour latter, Bates opened the library door and stepped into the hall, insides shaking.

How did he know?

_How…?_

They were kissing in the corridor were his lordship's bedroom was situated; of course, he left to sleep in his wife's bedroom and saw what could be interpreted as a clandestine moment.

It was only one kiss (their first, and now a completely inappropriate smile threatens to split his face), and his reason to celebrate August 4 rather then mourn it.

Yet the weight of knowing the truth – the darker, fathomless sins – makes his footsteps slow, his limp painful.

He has just sworn to uphold Anna's virtue and honor, her trust, like a knight in a fairy tale, when he is the furthest thing removed.

_And my crippled leg._ He groans as it throbs (the bleak weather outside pains it); could Anna bear the sight of it? If she accepted his whole black past, could she bear the sight of his knee, the mutilated flesh, the skin of the cap twisted, pink and white in turns, rough to the touch, and stomach turning, bile conjuring to gaze upon.

A part of him, the sensible part, knew Anna would not care: she was seraphic in her grace. Nevertheless, it was one thing to reveal his leg to Mrs. Hughes, a woman he greatly respected, another matter entirely to display it to Anna, the woman he loved.

_Vanity_. He would add vanity to his long list of character flaws. John wondered briefly what other faults would present themselves in the coming years.

~o~O~o~

Just as Mrs. Hughes predicted, life moved on, swifter than anyone else in the household thought it capable of.

Within a month, Thomas' bags were packed and they had bade him farewell with a polite wave and several muttered "good riddance" once his back was turned.

Mr. Carson's advertisement for a new second footman – William was promoted to fill Thomas' place – went unanswered, leaving them short-handed, but at the brisk pace they were forced to move the issue went largely unremarked upon, oddly enough.

For this same reason, Anna and Mr. Bates' kiss remand unmentioned and unpunished. Every time she thought to mention it to Mr. Carson there were others about or, under the stress of the past fortnight, she simply forgot.

Tonight housekeeper and butler were quite alone, pouring over the ledgers. Lord Grantham loaned them the use of the ladies' drawing room; it was much easier and more convenient to read by the light of modern electricity then by the flame of a candle.

"Why did you never confront him about the wine?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mr. Carson now, thinking of the recently decamped Thomas.

"Wherever would I find the time?" he quipped, glancing up from the papers spread out on the folding table erected before him.

Mrs. Hughes sat across, recounting and checking Mr. Carson's notes, his neat, tight scrawl dictating the item, the number, and the coast at bulk. Everything needed to be counted. The surplus of crops from the tenant farmers, the cost of ordered food, the valuables.

Monthly costs were being added up and then slashed.

The coming times would not seem so hard if they were accustomed to living frugally. This was his Lordship's thinking, and Mrs. Hughes agreed.

"Mr. Carson, is the number here a one or a seven?"

He took the outstretched paper, squinting, frowning. "It's a seven," he announced after a moment.

"Right. Well the sum's off anyway."

He groaned, leaning back on the chaise lounge head thrown back, a hand over his eyes.

"Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, softly. "It's just a sum…"

"No. No. It's not that," he lowered his hand, sighing. "It's that damn electricity, the glare is harsh on my eyes. It's giving me a headache."

"It'd be far worse if we were doing this by candlelight in your pantry." She glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. It read a quarter to two. "It's late besides, we need a rest." She sorted through the papers in her lap, making a note of which column had the precarious mistake.

"You're right of course; nothing that can't wait until tomorrow." He handed her the rest of the papers, as neat as they both were, she was the tidiest of their pair. "The war can't be moving that fast."

"Indeed."

They straightened the room, switched off the lights, and walked in silence to the stairs leading down to the servant's domain. Mr. Carson held the door open and she stepped through, momentarily thrown by the darkness.

"Mr. Branson will go, certainly," she whispered, "William…"

"William is hard to read," Mr. Carson supplied, taking the ledgers from her arms and leading the way downstairs. "Normally no, he's as open as a book; not one for stoicism. But on this matter…"

"Aye," she murmured, unsettled by the darkness of the hall, the unearthly quiet.

"What do you think about Mr. Bates?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked, startled.

"Do you think Mr. Bates will want to go to war?"

Mrs. Hughes thought briefly of Anna and now would be the time to save the girl's reputation. "If I had to venture a guess I would say not."

"Really?"

"I happened to see something the other night-"

From the kitchen their came a crash, a scream, and then a great howling cry. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes ran towards the doors, and whatever she may have thought of Mr. Bates was reevaluated in that moment and the ones that fallowed.

William wept frightfully on the floor surrounded by a pile of broken cutlery; Daisy stood in the doorway just beyond, her eyes brimming with tears, Anna at her side. Both were dressed for bed, the same was the case for William and Mr. Bates who knelt besides the footman on his good leg, the bad one stretched out and away from his body at a jaunty angle, a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Mr. Bates?" Mr. Carson questioned. One look at his face and Mrs. Hughes knew his emotional capacity was tapped out. She stepped forward, her eyes meeting Anna's.

The head housemaid launched into an explanation. "Daisy woke me up, said William was upset about leaving at the end of the month," Anna's voice was gentle; Mrs. Hughes sensed that she was trying to relay the situation without unmanning William. "I thought Mr. Bates would be someone whom William could better…talk to."

Oh, so that was it – the war, Mrs. Hughes fought to keep a scowl off her face. About a week ago, every man and young boy caught up in the craze of enlistment, William declared his intention to join up as well.

She hopped the decision was spurred by some foolishly romantic idea of service to ones country rather then outside pressures. The magnitude of what he would face as a solder – gunfire, shelling, short rations, cold, blood, death, a great many invidious hazards – seemed to have finally set in.

Mrs. Hughes inhaled deeply: "Anna, if you could put the kettle on."

"Come on, William," Bates said, pulling himself up using the side of the counter. "Dry your eyes, lad."

William's face was blotchy, white were it was not red and swollen. Mrs. Hughes gave him her handkerchief, but rather then dry his face the lad twisted it between his fingers, miserably.

"Come on, William, sit down," Bates instructed, pulling out a stool. Obediently William sat and so did Mr. Bates. Mrs. Hughes perched on the stool to his left, while Mr. Carson approached tentatively standing at her shoulder.

Anna divvied out tea; Daisy's hands trembled so badly she sloshed half of her cup down the front of her nightgown. Anna gave her a sympathetic glance, taking the teacup from the overwrought girl.

"Now, William," Mrs. Hughes said gently. "Whatever is the matter?"

"I can't tell you," he whispered, staring vacantly into his tea.

"Yes," Mr. Bates urged, "You can."

The lad shook his head, fervently. Mouth forming words that were pronounced so softly she had to lean close to catch them. "Me mum would be so ashamed…"

Anna reached across the table, covering William's hand with hers. Such familiarity was called for only in situations of intense distress; this certainly qualified as one of those. "Don't be daft."

"You lot should be so ashamed!" he cried passionately, head snapping up, eyes wild. "I don't want to go to war! I don't want to die, Lord knows I'm a coward -…"

"You aren't a coward," Mr. Bates asserted firmly, "No sane man wants to fight a war."

"But I can't stay here," William sobbed. "I won't be able to face any of you if I don't go." Heaving forward, his body wracked by sobs, William Mason fell to pieces on Mrs. Patmore's pristine kitchen counter.

He was inconsolablele.

Mr. Bates wrapped his arm around William's shoulders; improper, undignified, William wept freely against the older man.

Mrs. Hughes felt her heart expand inside her breast, the profusion of emotion – and she never had been a sentimental woman – causing her a physical ache in the foundation of her belly.

She lent closer, hands stroking William's back and hair. "There, there, lad," Mr. Bates soothed, and in that moment Mrs. Hughes' mind was made up for her.

Anna and Mr. Bates had her wholehearted blessing to continue walking out together.

~o~O~o~

Within the time frame of a few short weeks, Austria-Hungry, Russia, and France mobilized. A seemingly never-ending supply of men and artillery were racing across the continent, speeding towards derailment.

In Downton, a quintessential village in the heart of the English countryside, men were enlisting right and left, leaving their fields and businesses for foreign and bloody soil. It was much the same in Ripon, Manchester, London and everywhere else. Young men were eager to serve, ready to defend Queen and country, God and family.

Even so, Matthew Crawley – Oxford graduate, erudite lawyer – could not predict the horrors to come as he read aloud bits and pieces from the _Times_ to his mother.

"It is not a merry start," he concluded, briskly before thumbing through to the Saturday cartoons. A rather sardonically comical one involving_ le chiffon de papier_ was the main feature.

His mother set down her fork, a small chime echoing as silver meet china, looking suddenly a little green. "You are taking a very novel line on this, Matthew, and I don't care for it."

Matthew through the paper down, exasperated, for this was a discussion – no, an argument – his mother kept bringing up at every opening she got. The paper, which Mosley had painstakingly ironed twenty minutes hence, landed half in the butter plate. "Why not?" He demanded. "Everyone else in Downton is signing up."

"Yes! Tenant farmers and shop keepers, not Lord Grantham's only heir!" she cried piercingly, on the verge of hysterics.

Mosley, dutifully at attention, barley managed to conceal a sympathetic wince.

"You speak as if their lives are less important then mine simply because of their social standing," Mathew replied hotly (he knew full well she did not, but in this moment it did not matter).

Isobel cried out as if wounded, neck and cheeks flushing indignantly. "You know I don't believe that in the least. I am not a social affectation."

"Of course not mother," Matthew replied.

"I am not Mary; I do not enjoy verbal jousting either."

The arrow hit its mark. Mary had not tried to see Matthew since the disaster of a garden party. Admittedly, he had not actively sought her out, burying himself in work, refusing invitations to dine with Lord Grantham. And when at last they seemed to have given up on him, Sybil accompanied by one of the housemaids dropped in unannounced and had tried to appeal to his good nature.

"We were just in town; Gwen," she pointed to the ginger-haired girl who curtsied bashfully, "needs to purchase some essentials before she takes up her new post."

"Oh, really?" Matthew asked politely. He was almost pleasantly surprised by the girl's audacity to chart her own course. "You are leaving Downton?"

"Yes," the girl blushed, her skin glowing with pride. "I've been taken on as a secretary."

"It's a great vocation," Sybil gushed, before diving into an overly polite tirade of how awful sad Mary was, how down trodden the whole household had become since his last visit, and how papa wished to see him dearly.

Matthew could not imagine any of it. Oh, he could see why Lord Grantham would desire to see him, but the servants were never his greatest fans, any melancholy they experienced could be attributed directly to the war. As for Mary – _Lady _Mary - she flew into love and out of love as his prospects altered, fickle as a summer breeze and twice as hoped for.

The visit – which had been forced upon him yesterday – took most of his Saturday afternoon. Gwen, Mathew reflected, looked distinctly uncomfortable next to Sybil who chattered on and on. Finally, after checking his watch for the umpteenth time he stood: the girls fallowed suit, Gwen jumping more quickly to her feet then Sybil, which he attributed to her social class rather then Sybil's overt chattiness.

"This has been a pleasant afternoon, but I do have a very important matter to attend to," Mathew explained elusively.

"Really?" Sybil picked at her sleeve, fiddling with the lace cuff. "I am sorry that we kept you…"

"Not at all…"

Mathew hastened to the Town Hall afterwards, adding his signature to the growing registry. He would make the announcement at the end of the week, on Friday after dinner, if all went well; though, he fully expected to be upstaged by one of the many townspeople present.

Nearly everyone knew everyone in Downton, one hushed word to a maid and Mr. Carson would get whiff of Mathew's enlistment and report straight to Lord Grantham.

"You are my son!"

Mathew blinked, startled to see his mother – fierce combatant of Cousin Violet – weeping, her hands covering her face in an effort to conceal her tears.

"Mother," Mathew whispered. He stepped swiftly to the other side of the small table, conscious of Mosley disappearing into the den. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waste, shocked by how thin she had become in the past mouth. "Mother…"

"Why?" She demanded brokenly. "Why, Mathew? Why?"

"If I told you that I longed to serve my country in defense of tyranny would you believe me?" he asked softly. He kissed the crown of her head, lovingly; the roles of comfort reversed.

"No," she drew back sharply, face pulled into a tight scowl of disapproval; he felt quiet a bit like the school boy, once again caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner. "Because it is simply not the truth."

~o~O~o~

"Will you go with them?"

Branson glanced away from the book in his hand – one of E.M. Foster's – and up into the twinkling abet shrewd gaze of Lady Sybil. She looked most out of place in the garage. "Go where, M'lady?"

"Don't be cheeky," she teased, sitting besides him on the bench. "Foster?"

"Aye. I'll leave it for you when I go off to Belgium, shall I?"

Her face grew long, the softness in her cheeks hardening. "That is not very funny; why it is not funny at all."

He laughed, she swatted him playfully, soon they both were doubled over, their shared mirth a brief escape from the restrained tone everyone else had taken up.

"I won't be leaving anytime soon," Branson said, "Unless your father ain't pleased with me work all of a sudden."

"Don't be daft," Sybil muttered affectionately.

She slid along the bench until there was no space between them; their thighs and shoulders brushing faintly, erotically. Branson lifted his arm so Sybil could slip under it. She rested against his shoulder, her hair smiling of exotic perfume, fingers gliding over the pages of the well-worn novel.

"Gwen get off all right?" he asked after a moment, recalling seeing her in tears the fallowing morning.

"Yes. Yes she did." Sybil sounded melancholy. "I don't want you to think I'm not happy for her."

Branson smiled. "I know you most assuredly are glad that she got the post."

"I'll miss her," Sybil confessed, "but we'll write and it is not likely that I won't ever see her again."

They returned to the book, flipping though pages quickly, enjoying each others company. Everyone else had gone into town, supporting William and the other men in the household offering their services for the war.

"Oh, Tom," she murmured, wrapping her arms around his waste, "I am ever so glad that you are staying at Downton."

~o~O~o~

Mary blinked, tears obscuring her vision of the paper - the pretty stationary, pink ribbons on the edges curling towards the delicately formed roses inhibiting each of the four corners - briefly.

Dear Cousin Matthew

Dear Mr. Crawley

Dear Matthew,

_This letter is uncharacteristically improper, but then you are not fastidious about doing things the proper way. There, you've probably had a good laugh at this already..._

Her pen stopped. Gingerly, Mary placed her hand over her heart: it beat quickly though she sat perfectly still, her emotions stirring a deep pool of feeling that sounded ridiculous and snobbish once pen was put to paper.

There was a knock on the door; Anna appeared a moment later, a basket of clean undergarments perched expertly on her hip. She paused when she saw Mary, bent over the surface of her vanity, looking morose. "Begging your pardon, my lady. I didn't think you would be in here. I can go and come back..."

"No!" Mary said so loudly that Anna frowned, a crease appearing in her brow line. "I mean..." Mary swallowed. "Please don't go on my account; it isn't any trouble."

"All right," Anna said, setting her basket down on the bed and picking up a pile of neatly folded garments. "Lady Mary, are you feeling well?" She asked after a moment.

"Well?" Mary echoed, her voice sounded hallow, like it was coming from somewhere fare away.

"I know it's above my place, but you don't seem..." Anna paused, appearing to be casting about mentally for the right words, "You don't seem quite yourself today."

Mary opened her mouth, a lie on the edge of her tongue. Anna cut her off, perhaps sensing her discomfort. "War has been declared, which isn't easy for any one of us to come to grips with. If you are off center it stands to reason..." She was giving her an out, Mary realized; if she did not want to discuss Mathew's rejection, Mary only needed to grasp this golden excuse.

Anna smiled, kindly, her eyes warm. Mary remembered her empathy the night Kemal died; how understanding and kind Anna was while her own mother proclaimed her a disgrace. It was much the same now: her whole family thought her a fool, an object deserving of scorn.

"Please sit, Anna," Mary said, gesturing to her bed.

Anna set the fresh laundry in the drawer carefully then did as ordered. Mary wandered over, collapsing onto the edge of the bed; she could not think how to begin. "How much has Carson told you?" She asked, hoarsely.

Anna blinked, perplexed. "Nothing at all, my lady."

"Come now, I know you talk below stairs." Mary snorted, "I won't flatter myself and say that everyone likes me."

"Mr. Carson loves you," Anna said, "Like a daughter, and the rest of us are of an equal sentiment."

Mary could not stop tears from spilling, running down her nose to pool in her lap. Anna gingerly laid a hand upon her shoulder; Mary whimpered, doubling over. "It hurts!" She choked. "Being in love with someone who won't love you back. For what purpose? Pride! Pigheaded male stubbornness!"

Anna wrapped her arms around Mary's shaking form, the noble girl fell sobbing against her shoulder, grief unrestrained, all thought of class and dignity forgotten. "Men can be that way when it comes to their pride and honor," Anna said.

"Yes, well I have neither left," Mary cried, "My pride is utterly gone and my honor was lost two years ago."

"You made mistakes, My Lady" Anna said firmly. "That doesn't make you unworthy or bad, it makes you human."

"Tell that to my family."

"Well, if I did I might lose my place," Anna said mildly.

Mary laughed, with a lightness she did not feel. "We can't have that, can we?" Anna handed her a handkerchief and Mary sat up. "I never asked you why you helped, two years ago, you could have been arrested, had someone known..."

Anna flushed. Mary watched her examine her hands; they were rough, calloused but the nails were filed down, neat and clean.

"I thought I might write him a letter," Mary continued. Now that she had begun talking she would be hard pressed to stop, wasn't that always the case? "But I don't know what to say; it keeps coming out all wrong."

Anna nodded sympathetically.

"I just can't say it," Mary confessed quietly then snorted, "Look at me! I can't even tell you I'm in love with him."

"You just did, my lady," Anna stressed the words. "Tell him you're sorry..."

"He won't listen to me, I fear he never will."

"Men are stubborn," Anna said, seeming particularly knowledgeable on the subject. "Sometimes you just have to keep telling them...until you wear them down."

Mary shrugged, hopelessly. "How will I even see him? My parents think I've gone and made enough of a fool out of myself as it is."

Anna paused thinking, then said, slowly, "I may be wrong, but perhaps if you gave him time... I know he is come to dinner on Friday..."

"Is that all it will take?" Mary asked, forlornly. "Time. I am 23 next month, I haven't got time."

"There's a war on, My Lady. None of us does."

~o~O~o~

The air in the dinning room crackled with a tension that not felt since Matthew's arrival at Downton. The conversation was slow, awkward, and dry in turns. At long last the ladies retired to their drawing room for coffee and the men went for a drink in the library.

They had not been inside ten minutes when a loud commotion could be heard.

"What on earth?" Lady Violet wondered to the room at large.

"I would venture a guess that Matthew's told him," Isobel said, quietly.

"Told him what?" Cora asked.

Isobel, eyes over bright, shook her head, sorrowfully. "Matthew has enlisted; he reports for duty with the rest of the men in three days."

Mary sprung to her feet, shocked, the color draining from her face. "What?"

The door burst open, an incensed Lord Grantham stood framed in the doorway, Matthew standing awkwardly behind him in the middle of the hall. "Is it true?" he asked hoarsely, staring at Isobel.

She nodded, looking at her hands, unable to meet the eyes of anyone else in the room.

"I did not dare believe you," Lord Grantham scowled, turning back to Matthew. "You know of the precarious situation we are in -…"

"You, Lord Grantham!" Mathew cried, suddenly angry. "It is no longer we."

"But it is. Downton will be yours someday. God willing that will not be soon, but given the state of things -…"

"The state of things?" Matthew demanded, incredulous. "You are headed to a cushy job in the London War Office; I am deploying to Ypres. There is a great difference in the two."

"Mathew!"

"Robert!"

"Papa!"

Doors opened below, a few of the staff members attracted by the noise, curious as to what was causing such a fuss among the nobles.

Matthew looked at the women, all with the exception of his mother utterly taken aback and horrified, comprehension dawning slowly. He swallowed, peccant. "Cousin Cora…"

Lord Grantham turned to his wife, reaching out to take her gently by the shoulders, she stepped back; she seemed to be having trouble breathing, every inhale and exhale a strangled gasp. "Darling…"

"I never," she whispered, horrified, "Robert!"

"Carson," Isobel said, rising, lips trembling. "We shall take our leave now, I think."

The butler nodded, "Very good, ma'am."

Mary pushed past her father, trailing behind Matthew and Isobel. She stood in the center of the hall uncertain of what to say; if Mathew wanted her to fallow him he gave her no direction. So she watched them leave, a hollow, empty pit forming in the recesses of her stomach.

Slowly, she tore her gaze from the front doors; Anna caught it, appearing as ever sympathetic and understanding.

"What have I done?" Mary whispered, so low only Carson could hear her. "Oh, God save me."

**TBC...**

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**a/n:** Thank you for all the lovely reviews!


	3. III Parting Ways

**Title:** A Note on Bravery

**Author**: Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Matthew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

**Special Thanks:** To the amazing StuckInThePast who has been kind enough to act as beta.

* * *

III. Parting Ways

Per usual Mr. Bates was waiting for her on the low bench, his sturdy form half obscured by the combined height of several stacked crates. Anna approached with a familiar sense of trepidation succeeding her; not unprecedented, for this was the place where they held all their serious conversation, the sight of their almost kiss, and recently a hiding place at the end of the day.

The niche during nighttime provided a seldom-attainable privacy from the other's knowing smirks and preying looks. A place to hold hands and kiss without fear of repercussion, and a blessing too, now that the bridge of physical intimacy was crossed and burnt, Anna found they struggled not to touch each other.

Holding hands underneath the table at meal times, steeling kisses in deserted corridors, brushing shoulders and sides in passing. At nighttime the yard provided them with opportunity to talk, and relief from the scorching heat of covertness.

Ever sensitive to her presence, he lifted his head, smiling as she sank down besides him, their fingers interweaving automatically. "For how long have you know about His Lordship?"

After Mr. Crawley exposed Lord Grantham's conscript scarcely an hour earlier, the family dinner collapsed in uproar. The whole house was shocked, save him.

"Long enough to worry he might never tell her Ladyship," Bates replied, taking the sallied tone he only ever used when she worried.

He was using it more and more recently, and understandably so – they were all scared, every spare thought spent dwelling on the troubling news from abroad (mass mobilization, 27,000 French soldiers dead, Germany's invasion of Russia).

"How is Lady Mary bearing up?"

"She's staggering," Anna confessed, "But we'll have to – us disavowed women." A beat then – "You'll go with his Lordship, of course, you have to; he can't manage without you." Anna wished her voice did not sound so stretched and glum.

"It'll be about all I can do for the war effort." Immediately, he winced at the harshness of his words.

Anna gave his hand a squeeze. "I've told you my thoughts on the matter," she reminds him."

He is very good at knocking himself down and she fears the day another bought of self-sabotaging behavior takes hold. She shudders to think of the injustices that have befallen him. "Miscarriage of justice," she has proclaimed, while he insists his stint in jail was a "penance."

They've discussed this thoroughly over the last few weeks: he fears his leg makes him obsolete to his country, to those around him rather then an aid. Naturally, she believes the opposite, scarcely a day goes by when she does not consider her life pre-Mr. Bates (how vacuumed it was) and then post and think, _How lucky am I? The luckiest woman in the world to have him. _

His gaze turns bright, warm affection replaced by a look of sheer awe making Anna suddenly glad for the darkness that conceals her blushing face. She continues: "You'll leave for London then, when everyone else leaves? It'll be nice for your mother, having you so close."

"For a time," he says, "I'll be back before you know it. Christmas come."

Anna feels instantly guilty. She's selfish: she has little right to miss him when he'll only be in London. He may depart alongside William and Mr. Cowley but in a few short months the war will return him to her waiting arms, unscathed and whole, whilst Daisy and Lady Mary pine for their sweethearts.

And worse, her good luck spawns from his misfortune. If not for his limp, Mr. Bates would be going with them to Ypres and insurmountable peril. Anna's shame in this is overwhelming.

They sit in comfortable silence, fingers gyrating together. Anna can judge his agitation by his posture; the palm of his hand grows sweaty against her own. She waits, perfectly confident that he will tell her what in his own time.

Slowly, he confesses, "I go with another purpose in mind. I'll have some free time, enough to find…"

"Your wife," she whispers, heart plummeting to the depths of her toes, guilt souring.

Remorse consumes his face, urgently grasping her shoulders. "I intend to discover what became of her, and to demand my liberation."

He bends his face to hers, and she cannot keep from throwing her arms around him, catching him up in a hot kiss as he teases her lips with his, and it registers almost with the force of a small incendiary that this is a promise of a proposal to come.

~o~O~o

Edith watched her family gathered around the fire. They rarely met like this anymore. Over a decade ago when she and her sisters were young, she relished these nights of quiet bonding, anxious only to sit on papa's knee and have her parents' full attention.

How long ago that now seemed, yet scarcely anything had changed besides the war. She still had to win their approval, the constant stress of fighting to be noticed often making her caustic. She was doomed, predetermined by birthright; continually overlooked for Mary's scandalous behavior and Sybil's bizarreness.

They had always been rivals for papa's attention, what was to become of them in his absence? To Edith's knowledge, Downton never stood without its master's presence for more than a season.

Who was to manage the large estate? Who would enact repairs and keep the account books neat and precise?

Her mother, sitting in the armchair besides her father was pale, ill looking, not yet fully recovered from the miscarriage. How would she manage the fiscals and the disputes her father tended to on a daily basis?

Who would help her?

Certainly not Mary, who acted more insufferable then ever, increasingly miserable and despondent, when it was all her fault that Mathew (who was Mary's polar opposite - poor, sweat, and virtuous) deployed to Ypres.

Edith looked at Sybil, concerned only for politics and the vote. Her little sister had become quite sneaky while none of them were looking, but Edith had noticed what the others were blind to.

Sybil spent massive amounts of time below stairs, socializing in a way less than proper with the servants. Edith wondered, now that the Gwen had moved up and out into the world, who her sister's latest project was.

The library door opened, William appeared with a tray of champagne, setting it down on the table besides papa before leaving them to their privacy.

Papa had given Carson strict orders that if the family required a service they would ring for it, allowing everyone above and below stairs the opportunity to say goodbye.

A kind gesture, if a little impractical.

Her father motioned for them to take up a glass, holding his aloft and looking at each of them in turn. "My darling family," he began, "The war wont go on forever. Have heart and keep faith – they predict an end to this unpleasant business by Christmas."

~o~O~o~

Skirting a piece of discarded luggage at the bottom of the stairs, Mary hurried forward, on a mission. Matthew, would not see her now, of that she was certain. Besides, she was too late to prevent his leaving England much less Downton when he had promised the army his allegiance, and perhaps Anna's advice was sage: let him have time, even if it was for the sake of his own male pride.

She owed him that even if it meant her only hope now lay in the form of a letter.

Faced with the horror of loosing him for good, all her feelings (the whole truth, _almost_) poured out onto several pieces of paper last night.

Getting the letter to Matthew posed a grand problem. Her father was unlikely to deliver it when he like the rest of the house blames her for Matthew's enlistment.

In fact, everyone seemed angry with her with the except of Sybil and two other sympathetic souls.

She had briefly entertained the idea of giving Anna the letter to deliver, then realized she and Matthew had rarely interacted enough for it to seem plausible that they would say farewell, which left one other person.

"Carson," Mary said. The butler turned from overseeing the removal of several heavy trunks to the motor, looking slightly harassed. "I have a favor to ask of you."

~o~O~o~

The entirely of the village stood on the platform, reluctantly waiting for the milk train to clatter into the station. The townspeople viewed the locomotive as a metaphoric vessel of expiry; Charon's* dark chariot racing ever closer, coming to spirit their men away.

The gathered throng was motley, extending from the humblest of families to the upper strata of the local echelon. Today classes were permitted to intermix like this, without much restriction or thought of propriety, there was a monumental lack of restraint as families prepared for a long separation – hugging, kissing, and crying unabashedly.

For all their fortune, the Crawley's were no different.

Isobel tried not to let her fear show on her face. Matthew needed to place his thoughts firmly elsewhere whilst away, not worry for her well-being.

The previous afternoon, Mrs. Crawley had sorted through her son's wardrobe, picking out a few suitable garments for packing. The task normally fell to Molesley, but Isobel had wanted to do it herself. It proved rather more lengthy than she originally anticipated: on numerous occasions Matthew had needed new attire suitable for his station as Lord Grantham's heir, but somehow just how much he needed had not registered until she sat sifting through silken garments (all of which Matthew had purchased with the greatest reluctance).

One of many war-mothers now, Isobel kept trying to reconcile herself with the horrid truth which now became reality as she stood besides her son – the child she had borne into the world and dutifully raised – looking smartly dressed in a soldier's uniform.

Matthew departed much more willingly than the rest of the men if could judge by the tearful farewells and embraces taking place around them.

Becoming master of his own fate meant recklessly laying it all on the line first. Isobel knew Mathew did not grasp the full extent of what damage could be done. If he…if he could not inherit then Downton would be lost and the lives of hundreds living in and around it drastically altered.

Isobel was powerless to prevent his leaving, for once inept as a protector. Not even Lord Grantham, with his mountainous amount of sway and influence, could extract Matthew from the armed ranks.

It was too late. There was a high need for young men full of strength and vim, so her boy would remain trapped with nothing – not even a hasty declaration of love from Mary – shielding him from harms way.

Isobel would spend her son's tour serving once again as an army nurse. She knew her days would be consumed by fear and crippling anxiety if she did not keep her mind and hands rigorously occupied.

She still toyed with the idea of relocation to Manchester or even to London. She would only see any sort of diversion in the cities. The long toil would certainly be a strain at her age, yet how could she bare the alternative?

Remaining in Crawley House to watch villagers stagger and scrape under wartime's never increasing burdens, calling on cousin Violet and cousin Cora as if her world had not upheaved itself twice?

The idea of pretending such nonsense was almost maddening! Of course the polite thing to do would be to stay, but what could ever come of denying life's unpleasantness?

Sighing, Isobel reached up, smoothing the pressed collar of her son's uniform unnecessarily. Molesley had done a fantastic job if it. "I had Mrs. Bird pack you some sandwiches and biscuits for the trip. Enough to share with Lord Grantham," she added suggestively.

Matthew rolled his eyes at her subtle command to make amends. Not unexpected, but still, she had to try, hadn't she? "I expect Carson will have seen to Lord Grantham's snack already."

"Never the less," she said, casting a stern gaze upon him, "It won't cause you harm to offer him a sandwich."

~o~O~o~

"_You were recalled? Tell me you were recalled, Robert." _

_His wife's voice trembled slightly, she sounded devastated; following the trial of the past month her tone aroused a deep feeling of guilt. _

_The lord and lady were secluded in her bedchamber. After Matthew's divulgence, Robert was quick to dismiss the pop-eyed servants and send his daughters to bed. He even managed to expel his mother (though how was any man's guess.) _

_O'Brien was rung for, the woman promptly hustling Cora into her night things, while Robert mulled over a way to amend for the combined damage his silence and Mathew's presumption had caused. _

_He could find no reasonable excuse. _

_Now the countess stood beside the luxurious four-poster bed, and Robert sat on the chair pulled out from her vanity, oddly mute and extremely contrite. _

_Cora swayed suddenly, knees buckling. She pitched backward, collapsing weightless on to the bed, arms folding around the small curve of her waist, hugging her body in an urgent embrace. Her husband's leaving was unfathomable. _

"_Cora," Robert began but stopped short, uncertain of what condolence he might offer her. _

"_You must have been called up," Cora whispered, ashen faced. "Please tell me they drafted you back into the army, and you have not been caught up in this enlistment fever with the rest of the masses." Her voice took on a warning tone, "In view of the facts, because you have obviously kept this secret for sometime, I feel that you have once again willingly put yourself in the middle of a war. Tell me I am jumping to a hasty conclusion – I do not know what I would do if my assumption was proved true." _

"_I gave you my solemn oath never to seek glory again on the battlefield," Robert said with a calm he did not feel. "Lord Fischer requested my services as a strategist in the War Office. I will be stationed in London, far removed from any harm, except the combined hazards of smog and hordes." _

_Cora realized a small cry: "Oh, Robert!" She blinked furiously, an ineffectual attempt to keep tears at bay. "Do you depart with the rest?" _

_He nodded. He left for London alongside every other enlisted man from Downton in a mere three days. Since the fateful telegram he and Bates had spent numerous secret hours making travel plans and arrangements, while Robert looked for a way to break the news to his wife. He feared of causing her further injury on top of everything else and he could not be the cause of more pain and heartbreak for her. _

_She gazed at him now, from under wet lashes, her cheeks damp and pinched, the definition of emotional wreckage, yet her voice was strong as she spoke. "You must take Bates along with you, of course. He will see that you take proper care of yourself in my absence." _

_Robert deflated under her acceptance. He had braced himself for tears, screaming, a fight; this practical reservation, uncharacteristically un-American of her to not try and alter their current circumstances, put him off. "Cora…"  
_

_She patted the spot besides her. "Come here, Robert." _

_Docilely, he rose and sat besides her on the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his and stroking the soft skin of her palms. "My darling, you are the epitome of courage," he kissed them, once, twice, "the definition of grace," his lips traveled to adore the sensitive undersides of her wrists, raising goose-pimples along her arms, her breathing turning shallower, "and the manifestation of fortitude," he kissed the tip of each finger, leisurely. _

_A laugh of mild hysteria echoed his words. "I love you, Robert, I really do and you love me," she cut him off before he was able to squash her declaration, sliding her hands from his so she might hold and gently caress his face, fingers tracing the slight crows feet at the corner of each eye and the parenthetical lines around his mouth. "Painful as it is for an Englishman to say the words," she teased. _

_Robert laughed and kissed her hard. Cora's fingers wound into his hair, pulling his lips forcefully against her own as his arms encircled her tightly. _

Robert shook his head as he stepped from the motor, physically wanting to push the memory to the back of his conscience – at least for now.

Cora's linked her arm through his, the soft silk of her skirts rustling. She wore a new dress selected precisely to play up the azure shade of her eyes, though the benevolent smile she wore did not quite reach them.

Their children looked a little like their mother: whitish and worn at the prospect of parting. Only Sybil was able to conjure a look of ease, thanking Branson with a small smile as he helped her step down from the car. Mary looked inconsolable; Edith appeared nervous.

Passing strangers stopped and tipped their hats, admiringly almost reverently, something Lord Grantham would recall only later after he was settled in London and this unhappy day was a distant memory.

For now, his eyes skimmed over the large crowd, searching for the familiar faces of his staff. They made a small, intricate knot off to the side of the commotion. He had bidden them goodbye already, a group of dedicated individuals whom kept his home not only running through managing the trivial day to day affairs but comfortable and homely.

Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, O'Brien, William – Robert halted, studying the former footman. The khaki of William's uniform washed the color from his complexion, and his ears stuck out under the regulation cap looking almost comically large.

And yet, the lads back was straight, his gaze clear and strong as he shook hands and accepted embraces from his coworkers. Robert could see, quite plainly, his pride and felt a renewed vigor: soon he would be working hell-bent to save the lives of men like William (eager and fearless to serve their country).

He would hold on to this day – all this, William in his livery and the blessings of the townspeople – while he worked in London.

~o~O~o~

_I mustn't look so cast down,_ Daisy chided herself for the tenth time that morning. _I want William to remember me as being happy. _

Since the night in the kitchen, William had avoided her, blushing whenever she entered a room or turning clumsy and tongue-tied (butter-fingers, was the word O'Brien had used scathingly).

Now the object of her affections stood between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes (of all people) at the center of their guild. How ever was she to manage getting him on his own long enough to ask him her question?

She could always brave it, she supposed, drawing closer. He looked so fetching in his uniform; so strong and handsome, so what if he had been terribly frightened a week ago, proper wars were meant to frighten people.

A war also brought out the valiant, identified the heroes, separating the courageous from the cowards. Which was she?

Surely, if William could face cannonfire then she could risk humiliating herself in front of the others.

"You've remembered to pack everything, haven't you?" Mrs. Hughes inquired. Daisy thought her voice sounded oddly congested as if she suffered from a mild cold.

William patted his pockets, frowning, suddenly unsure. "I think I have."

Anxiously, Daisy stepped forward into the line of fire. "William?"

He froze, flushing, a hesitant smile coming to his mouth. "Yes, Daisy?"

"Do you have a moment?"

"S-Sure, Daisy."

She led him across the green, away from the others, only stopping once she was certain they could not be overheard.

"I just wanted to say that I'll miss you," Daisy confessed, stealing herself, "I'll miss you ever so much, William, and – and you look very comely all dressed up like that."

William looked slightly crest-fallen, one edge of his mouth drooping as if he hoped she had come out with something extremely different. "Thanks, Daisy. I'll miss you too. You're a great friend."

Which was a bald face lie and they both knew it. She had been an awful friend.

For a moment her courage faltered and they stood examining the top of their boots for a long, tense moment. Finally, Daisy asked, breathless: "Would you write to me?"

William started, eyes widening until they closely resembled a saucer in diameter. He remained silent for so long she almost began fearing she had woefully overstepped a dividing line or misread his intentions like she had with Thomas. "You mean it, truly?" He asked sounding excited.

She smiled, the flirty bashful smile, which up until this point she had reserved for his rival. "Yeah. It'd be first rate of you, seeing as I am such a great friend and all. So will you?"

William let out a shaky laugh: relief evident in his voice, that and a strange otherworldly happiness. "Every day if you like," he promised then lent down and kissed her swiftly on the lips.

~o~O~o~

_Bates and William were packing to leave: the valet dispensing a bit of wisdom as the footman folded his spare shirt into a neat square. _

"_During the African War the army supplied the indispensables – uniform, foodstuff, rifle – for a nominal fee, but I think you'll find paper and pen are rather hard to come by," Mr. Bates instructed William. "You'll be expected to carry everything you need on your back, so pack light." _

"_My dress shirt and stiff collar won't be of much use, I suppose?" William asked, managing a little smile. _

_Bates returned the grin. "You can leave your waistcoat behind as well; extra socks and a scarf won't go amiss, though." _

"_You know, once his Lordship took me on as a footman, I thought this was it," William recalled, his tone a bit self-deriding, "William Mason, you have your whole life ahead of you; a decent living and the opportunity for advancement. Servanthood's hard work, but its an honest vocation." _

"_So is the army," Bates reasoned, "His Lordship's paternal line has a long history of soldiership." _

"_I know," William shrugged, "I just realized that on the other side will be some German who's drawn the same lot in life as I have. In a different world we might be friends." _

_Bates tried to picture it: the image was not hard to conjure. An opposing stripling in khaki uniform, lanky and altruist, fighting for God and country just as William would in a little while. "Nonetheless, you must look out for yourself first, William. Just because you don't see life in black and white does not mean that a rival soldier will view you with the same equitability." _

_A brisk knock sounded on the partially open door. Mr. Carson appeared, William's uniform pressed and burnished in hand. "Mrs. Hughes just finished ironing this, William, Mr. Bates I believe Anna is seeing to your own, and I'm about to ring the dressing gong, so you're both needed at once." _

_William took the uniform, draping it gently over the chair in the corner with an air of reverence. He paused, his hand tracing the stiff, new seam, his eyes roving to the few packed essentials and possessions. "Mr. Carson, I was wondering if I could store a few of my valuables in the safe you keep in you pantry? Only if it won't be a bother," he added hastily, tearing his gaze away from the packed suitcase. "I'd leave them in the cupboard up here, see, but I expect you'll need the space for whomever fills my post." _

_The butler's normal forbearing slipped a fraction, the expression in his eyes and on his face softening as he surveyed William with a look of strong affinity. "It won't be a bother in the least, William. Get whatever you need safeguarding to me after supper." _

_William nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Carson." He shut and latched the luggage case with an air of resolution, setting it by the foot of his bed. "Do you think Downton will be waiting for me when I get back – my place I mean?" _

_The butler's sympathetic expression was immediately replaced with affrontion, his normal sternness returning at the suggestion that the house would be anything but immaculate and prevailing. "Why ever would it not? Downton has stood through more than one war, you'll be back home and back to work by Christmas and that will be the end of the matter."  
_

_William smiled broadly in spite of the minute reprimand. "Thank you, Mr. Carson." _

_Mr. Carson ignored William, and turned to Bates. "Mr. Bates, his Lordship will need your assistance dressing. William, you need to lay the silver in the dinning room straightaway. Get to it now."  
_

_William sprung to attention. "Yes, Mr. Carson." _

"_Sir," Bates mumbled, an indiscreet smile turning up the corners of his mouth. _

_Carson pulled Bates aside once William had moved down the hall out of earshot. "How is he holding up?" He inquired, brow furrowed in a look of acute worry. _

"_Well, enough," Bates replied. _

"_Well enough is more than I dared hope for after the scene in the chief," Carson sighed. _

_They both looked on as William rounded the corner and disappeared from view, his footsteps sounding loudly on the stairs. "He'll do fine," Bates said, consolingly. "Army life is not terribly unlike service: structured, vigorous, every man has a role – a place – and the commanders are tough but fair as long as you stick to the rules." _

~o~O~o~

Sadly, Anna watched Daisy and William's interaction. "I feel so awful for them," she told Mr. Bates. The two stood apart only slightly from the rest, so that if they kept their conversation low they ran no risk of being overheard.

He watched William, a weary-fearful look in his eyes. "They may yet come out of this."

"You're worried for him," Anna said unnecessarily, watching him flinch moderately at her perception.

"I see many of the ideas that filled my head when I joined the army, and William is a much more delicate soul than I ever was," he sighed, "I dread the senseless violence he will witness – what he will have to do – and I worry that he'll be tempted by the bottle, as many men are, as I was. Nothing in life is ironclad or certain."

"Nothing?" She leaned up, on pretense of smoothing a crease from the arm of his uniform, stroking his bicep titillating. "You make for a very handsome sight in this."

His eyes twinkled. "What? This monkey suit?"

She laughed faintly, his hand slid atop hers, squeezing fleetingly just as a plume of smoke appeared on the horizon. "Will you miss me?" He asked.

"Silly, begger," she smiled, then swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, eyes watering slightly as she considers the long separation ahead of them and the threat of his estranged wife.

~o~O~o~

Two years ago Downton Village and its inhabitants were strangers. Today face upon face of the familiar swam before Matthew's gaze as he strived to avoid being detected by Lord Grantham's party.

It wasn't easy. Many of the townspeople kept doffing their caps, and Molesley had just rung his hand enthusiastically before going to fix Matthew's luggage.

His mother wound her arms around his neck, trembling violently, clutching him close for a long moment then pushing him back, holding his face between her hands, eyes keen as if she was trying to memorize his countenance. "I love you, Matthew," she murmured.

"I love you to, mother," he said, the only thing he could think of saying to her before allowing them to be parted by the bustling crowd. He moved with the mob, pushing towards the open door of a train car.

"Mr. Crawley!"

Matthew turned surprised to find himself face to face with Mr. Carson. The butler appeared flustered, an envelope held tightly in one hand. "Carson," Matthew greeted. "I suppose this is farewell to Downton, at least for a time."

"I dare say we shall miss you, and that we look forward to your safe return," he said properly, holding out the envelope as he did.

Matthew took the offered paper, recognizing Mary's elegant hand in the simple address at once. He tried handing it back, but Carson's hands were conveniently placed behind his back. "All of us at Downton look forward to that happy day."

"Please," Matthew said, the weight of Mary's letter heavy in his hands. "I have said everything I needed to; I don't want Lady Mary to wait for me when she should feel free to move on with her life."

Carson's gaze (artfully stern) and the inclination of his head, almost as if in empathy, overstepped the boundaries of social propriety. "If I may be so bold, Mr. Crawley?"

"Please, do."

"At the risk of being extremely impertinent-…"

The train whistle cried; stragglers exchanged a few last buried kisses.

Matthew started moving towards the open door, still offering Carson the letter, praying he would rescind it. "Whatever it is, please feel at liberty, Mr. Carson."

The older man sighed. "You may wish to read it someday, and regret throwing it away hastily. What harm will it do to hold on to Lady Mary's letter?"

Dumbly, Matthew tucked the letter into the front pocket of his jacket, Carson's words too sensible to reason against. "Thank you, Carson."

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Crawley."

Matthew hurried to find an empty seat, managing to find one by the window. He was unable to prevent himself from looking out. His mother stood besides cousin Violet (who appeared slightly trounce) surrounded by his cousins, Downton's staff forming a perimeter around them.

In the closing moment before the train gave a chug and a puff as it wheezed to life, Mary lifted her gaze, eyes meeting his, looking fixedly for no more than a second, a second long enough for him to choke, his stomach flip-flopping and his heart palpitating.

He was unable to deny that he still carried within him a burning torch.

Suddenly, the insanity of what he had done – what he was doing – overtook him, his chest tightening panicky as the train jilted forward and began moving, Downton passing out of sight in a hazy blur as the engine picked up speed.

~o~O~o~

Carson watched with the rest of the staff until the train was well out of sight.

"Well," Mrs. Patmore said, "I suppose that's that."

Lady Grantham nodded. "Indeed, Mrs. Patmore. That is that."

Slowly, they walked back up the road, feet dragging their heavy hearts across the dirt lane. Up ahead, Anna and Daisy walked with linked arms, Mrs. Patmore dispensing what could loosely be interpreted as solace.

Mrs. Hughes kept pace with him, staring ahead, a far away look in her eyes. She stumbled slightly and he reached out instinctivley to stead her; the slip of balance had caught him off guard. He had never knew her to loose her footing before. "Thank you, Mr. Carson," she murmured, the vague hint of tears in her eyes.

Charles offered her his arm. "Allow me to be of some support, Mrs. Hughes."

She shook her head, a heavy sigh escaping her, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. "Your too kind."

"Not at all."

They rounded the curve, Downton's towers visible over the tops of the trees, a giant hold, the essence of the county, alloyed and reposing, the coat of arms flapping peacefully in the breeze. But for how much longer, Carson could not be sure.

* * *

**a/n:** *Charon in Greek mythology ferries the dead to Hades. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.


	4. IV Between Convention and Love

**a/n: **Sorry for the wait! I was busy with school and needed to pass this class and have not (literally) written a single word for three months. I hope this makes up for it.

* * *

**IV. Between Convention and Love **

_September - October 1914 _

When Branson first kisses Sybil they're sitting in the back of her father's car. Everyone else is busy within, preoccupied with their own fearsome anxieties and the plethora of chores that have fallen on already overburdened shoulders.

The scent of her perfume is overwhelming, an alluring mix of rose and something more exotic. Jasmine perhaps, Branson is not quite sure. He imagines he reeks of gasoline, though, and sweat from having been tinkering with the motor all morning.

Branson is not sure who kisses whom; who is the braver and takes that next step, a flying leap of faith.

All he knows is that she_ fits _perfectly against his body. Her lips, the ones he had dreamt of kissing, feel impossibly soft and he closes his eyes at the sweetness of the sensation and the glister of the moment as his arms tighten around her waiste and her hands cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Society's rigidity slacks and bends under the strength of their feelings. A kiss can be just as powerful as the voice of the people joined in a crowd, screams just as loud for realization and change. At least, their kisses seem to.

The book - E.M. Foster - falls off the seat with a dull thud.

The moment is broken along with some invisible boundary; they are on the margins now, in the wilderness.

Her eyes are closed, her lips parted the breath emerging from them in unsteady gasps. The smile on her face is contented, one of wonder rather than aghast.

"My Lady." He falters unable to find words to express his feelings. His fear of what will happen to her if they are discovered, and the depths to which his feelings extend for this bright, passonate girl.

She opens her eyes; the dance mischievously.. "Sybil. Please, Tom, just Sybil."

His hand finds hers of it's own accord. Their fingers entwine, her hand is small and soft and delicately manicured. There is petrol oil underneath his nails and staining his fingers. "Are you sure...Sybil?"

Slowly, Sybil nods. .

Branson kisses her. Theroughly and be damned the consequences.

They've begun.

~o~O~o~

Matthew trudged down the main road of Etaples, the collar of his uniform turned up against the sting of mist combind with a light showering of rain. His legs protest as they carry him forward; every muscle in his body aching, pulled too tightly over his bones. Each pain is a testimony to days spent training in the mud clogged fields. Running in formation, dropping into man made dugouts, below bushes and country walls. Firing a few rounds off before crawling through the grass on his stomach until the commanding officer gave the order to rise, and the cycle began anew.

Etaples, a small provincial French town not at all dissimilar to Downton, bares scars from recent conflicts. The houses and shops are boarded up, the ones that have not been gutted and refurbished for the British Army's purposes. Large holes mar the surrounding countryside and a great many trees are absent from the skyline, cut down to fuel the fire of the fighting. Miles of rugged stumps, along with the normal devastation that trails behind warfare, casts a wide shadow upon the once beautiful French countryside.

Soldiers return from the front, trickling through the base in a steady drip, full of stories, eager to describe the savagery of the front line - tall tales, Matthew tells himself - to greenhorn troops.

Some of these men are injured, come for the field hospital - a loose word to describe the rows of cots packing the local church, usurping the pulpit and parishioners - Matthew himself was just coming from there.

Doctors and nurses, bagged volunteers, ran between patients who moaned under bandages saturated by their own blood. Many of the soldiers suffered fatal or life altering wounds; limbs lost to grenades and feet so infected with trench foot that amputations needed to be performed. Some merely sat in silence, the power of speech gone, their sunken and haunted eyes screaming untold horrors.

The fine rain evolves into a sudden, sheer downpour soaking him through his uniform within seconds. _Brilliant. _Clutching his jacket tightly about him, he breaks into a run.

The lights from the barracks flicker ahead. A great sigh of relief escapes him as Matthew throws open the door, hurling himself over the threshold, relieved and thankful for the warmth of the crowded, albeit smelly, room.

Matthew makes his way through the room, the first floor of an empty residence, to his cot. A small bundle rests on the pillow. He strips off his jacket and drapes it over the end of the berth, hopefully it would dry completely before roll call in the morning.

On the cot next to his, his new friend lay on his back, arms folded under his head, staring up at the wooden planks of the second floor with glassy eyes, the meager lines on his young face taught. "I saved you some dinner."

"Thanks, William."

"We're have you been?" William asked curiously.

Their relationship was born easily enough after they found themselves in the same regiment. Created out of convenience, the comfort of seeing a familiar face amidst the foreign. It took William some time to address Matthew as anything other then Mr. Crawley, however, to be the least informal or to begin a conversation.

William was prone to lapsing back into habits of his old vocation. He volunteered for extra work, seemingly happy to peel potatoes or dig latrines. His actions, those of someone desperate to keep homesickness at bay, made him unpopular, a target for bullying, and earned him the nickname Brown Nose (Matthew thought the sobriquet was terribly unoriginal) from fellow company men and officers alike.

"I've been checking out the field hospital for my mother. She wants an unadulterated report of the medical practices and hygienic conditions." Matthew pulled off his boots and peeled off his waterlogged socks. "Seeing as this might be the last time I am on the right side of it, I thought I might try for an optimistic assessment."

His dry humor was lost on William who blanched. "You don't really think that...Do you?"

"You've seen men who come back," Matthew said simply, "What is left. The few bodies that are salvaged and sent home to loved ones."

"You shouldn't think like that. My mother always said, 'You are what you give belief to.'" William shook his head gravely. "Thoughts like that will bring you trouble."

"We'll see." Matthew grabbed the small parcel on his pillow, opening it to reveal two halves of bread and a few cold strips of bacon. He wolfed them down without complaint.

The door opened then slammed. Private Carter, a carry-on full of incoming mail slung over one shoulder, stepped into the room. Though Carter's face closely resembled that of a weasels and he had the personality to match, the men perked up instantly when they saw him, Matthew and William included.

Matthew often received letters from his mother and Lord Grantham. Sybil wrote with regularity and these letters were always pleasant and strangely lighthearted despite the times, even if she did tend to ramble on about Suffrage and found ways to work Mary into her correspondences. Mary was inserted casually, almost slyly, at least twice a letter; an antidote at best that left him feeling slightly seasick. He could not forget the moment when their gazes locked, one of a handful of moments not masked against honest emotion, before the train pulled out of Downton Station. Try as he might.

"Nothing for you, Crawley. Brown Nose," Carter threw a thick bundle of mail in William's general direction. Papers flew into the air, falling around William like giant snowflakes.

"These have all been opened!" William cried indignantly. Matthew bent to help him gather up stray pieces of paper from the floor, noting the different styles of writing.

"Can't be too careful," Carter replied easily, something almost feral in his grin. "If it wasn't for that Northern accent you've got, you might be the enemy...you look German enough."

"He's an arse." Matthew said the moment Carter's back was turned and the man was out of earshot. "He stays here, torments new recruits, and then watches us leave for the battlefield. Too much of a coward to go himself."

"I'm the only one he torments," William pointed out, taking the papers from Matthew and leafing through the pages. "I've had worse, though. These are all out of order…"

William's regular correspondences were another mark against him, a sore point amongst the other men whose letters from home arrived much less frequently.

Matthew watched William's face glow as his eyes devoured the words of one letter, most likely from Mrs. Patmore's kitchen maid, Daisy, a woman William said was a "great friend" of his (and he never failed to blush slightly when he said this).

His fingers itched for Mary's unread letter, tucked in between the pages of his journal. Just in the footlocker besides him. "Everything all right at the big house?" Matthew asked, the pleasant residual flavor of bacon souring slightly on his tongue.

William shrugged, unable to tear himself from Daisy's words. "There managing well-enough without us men-folk."

~o~O~o~

The train pulled out of the station and silence descended. The horrible quiet of waiting for the worst to pass that stifled and broke the spirit.

Charles Carson saw the war wearing on his employers and his staff. Felt its effects himself, the tension suffusing through skin to settle in the very marrow of his bones. The house was thick with anticipation, and they had rather enough to keep them occupied at the moment. He only needed to look as far as the three ladies breakfasting at the table to find cause for concern.

It never occurred to him before, that Lord Grantham served as a kind of arbiter during these meals. Without a parental presebce, the air in the room crackled with Lady Mary and Lady Edith's joint enmity. The mutual anger and loathing between them turning the food cold. The fighting that had always been prevalent in their relationship since they were children had come to a head; now they refused to speak one word more than necessary to each other.

Lady Sybil tried her best to get them to talk, or at least, to join her in discussing - of all things, and at the _breakfast table _of all places - politics.

Naturally, neither one had any intrest in Suffrage or their younger sister's opinion. So whenever Lady Sybil grew tiered of tempting them to talk she would turn to him. "What do you think, Carson?"

He would muster together all his dignity and reply: "I agree, My Lady." (Very often he did not.) Some of her ideas where extremley wild, very like the ones Branson sometimes proffered in the servant's hall.

"Honestly, I don't know why we even bother with titles," Lady Sybil told her sisters.

"Here she goes again," Lady Edith said with a roll of her eyes. "With her scheme for upsetting the natural order of things."

"I don't think there is anything natural about one class of people oppressing another," Sybil replied. "It is by chance alone that we we're born with all this," she gestured to the lavish space around her, "The daughters of an Earl. Fortunate and privileged."

"I hardly think father oppresses anyone in his employ," Lady Mary said. "Don't you agree, Carson?"

"I do, My Lady."

The meal wrapped up and Mr. Moseley entered to clear away the dishes. Carson drifted from the room to the realm below, recalling the bedlam of the past few weeks as he and Mrs. Hughes restructured the balance of the house. Shorthanded, without an under house maid or second footman, they had been quite relieved when Mr. Moseley came to pick up the slack left by Thomas and William. The one good thing to come of Mrs. Crawley's recent move to London.

"_We must be grateful where we can," Mrs. Hughes told him. "Poor woman." _

He could hear her voice now, floating out from the kitchen. Her brogue thickening as Mrs. Patmore's voice rose in pitch; a battle was raging.

"How am I to be expected to make the dessert course, let alone cook anything else, without sugar?"

"Mrs. Patmore, you are not without sugar. The amount you can use is less, I grant you, but we must make do. His Lordship is adamant that we follow the rationing regulations prescribed by the War Office."

A pregnant pause. Carson imagined the dust settling. The housekeeper appeared a moment later, her face slightly flushed.

"The Kaiser better have thrown in the towel by Christmas." She fingered the keys hanging from her waste, the symbol of her power. "I don't know how many more episodes like that one I can endure."

Inside the kitchen Mrs. Patmore was taking her frustrations out on Daisy. "And just what has made you so happy?"

"William's wrote something ever so beautiful in his letter. He might have been a poet."

"Never mind. Don't stop stirring that! Fool, girl! You can't stop for a moment least it congeals."

They shared an amused look and continued down the corridor in the direction of his pantry.

"Is everything all right upstairs?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"Perfectly," Carson answered.

"Lady Sybil has not been filling the silence with Emily Davies and the _English Women's Journal, _then? Her Ladyship was remarking about it yesterday," she said by way of explanation. "Apparently, Lady Sybil is calling for reforms in the educational institutions."

"This morning she attacked the social ordering," Carson said. "I'm affraid some of her ideas sound very much like Mr. Branson's own political views. I'll have to have a talk with him about his conduct."

The housekeeper frowned. "Well, one must admire her spirit, I suppose."

Spirit, the kindling that fulled the strength of a person's character. Yes, it was all that mattered; in the end, when the universe was cruel and luck ran low, a strong spirit could propel a person through the blackest of times.

When Carson handed, no, handed was not the right word. When he forced Lady Mary's letter on Mr. Crawley, Carson knew a reply would not come immediately. Mr. Crawley was a decent man, but stubborn as a matter of principle and he was a young man nursing a very large wound to his pride.

Carson was sure that a letter would come eventually, given time. Days turned into weeks, a new month was just a few calender days away, and each morning that he did not have a letter to give Lady Mary he saw her spirit dim.

Not enough for anyone to notice, she was too good at concealing her emotions for that, but he worried all the same, he supposed he was behooven too it, especially in this climate; his Lordship working in London until Christmas, a war raging across Europe.

"May I come to you tonight?" He asked her suddenly, felling very sad indeed. .

"I should think by now you would not feel the need to beg an invitation," Mrs. Hughes' voice has a light, teasing while her eyes showed tenderness. She was sympathetic to his plight, felt keenly the unhappiness above and below stairs. Carson often sought out her company, retreated into the warmth of her parlor at the end of the day.

She did not seem to mind his intrusion on what little free time she did have, and they passed many an evening, him with a book, her knitting, occasionally discussing domestic affairs but sitting in quiet peace of the most part. Evenings like these were not uncommon before the war, but now they were an almost sacred part of his daily routine, her steady presence vital.

~o~O~o~

Mrs. Hughes sat with the evidence for a long while, mulling it over, weighing the facts as she tried to decide what she should do.

Mr. Carson's observation alone were not so troubling, in fact, if Elsie had not witnessed the spark between Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson at the garden party, she would not worry, only be slightly vexed with the young chauffer for not knowing where the line of propriety was.

The two pieces of evidence combined…It did not give her enough certainty to form a scientific hypothesis, but there was an indecorous affair taking place on some level.

Elsie could tell Branson off, certainly she would. Lady Sybil was a different kettle of fish all together. She was hardly an errant maid with a follower that the housekeeper could scold. Far from it. She was her employer's child, the daughter of an Earl, Elsie could not forbid Lady Sybil from doing anything much less tell her that flirting with the chauffer was a risky endeavor.

Then she saw something that forced her hand.

She was enjoying the short walk to St. Christopher's Parish, she always did but this time of year was especially beautiful. The leaves where just starting to turn their color and fall; the air was brisk but nit bitingly cold. Normally her arm would not be looped through the butler's, her hand not tucked securely in at his elbow, but ever since her stumble the day his Lordship left they had taken to walking this way.

What had he told her that day?

"Let me be of some support."

She supposed that was what made it all right, to walk with him like this. And why he visited her every evening. They where trying to forge pleasant habits to sustain them.

Mr. Carson, bless him, was rambling on and Elsie was only half paying attention when she saw something just up a head that left her some what disconcerted. Branson was helping Lady Sybil descend for the motor. The young lady's and lingered in his a moment longer then necessary, her eyes dancing mischievously, lips moving. Branson's flirtatious wink was boarder line conspiracy.

Elsie looked around quickly. No one else appeared to have noticed (thank, God).

But now she knew she had to take action.

That evening she caught Branson loitering in the servant's hall, a book open before him on the table, and she snatched the opportunity.

"Mr. Branson, its nearing midnight, what are you doing up at this hour?"

Branson nearly jumped out of his skin, skin flushing slightly; she'd seen nary a guilty footmen and housemaid to know when something was a miss. "I couldn't sleep, ma'am."

"I'm afraid to say that we are in the same sleepless boat." She took the seat across from him, forging her normal spot near the head of the table. "You don't mind if I join you?"

"Suit yerself," Branson shrugged and picked up his book again.

"Mr. Branson, I can tell when I'm being lied to," Elsie informed him quietly. "And I don't much care for it. You're waiting for Lady Sybil, aren't you?"

Branson shut his book carefully. The fact that he was not about to deny it spoke wonders about his character. "Mrs. Hughes, it isn't what you think."

"It never is."

Anna, her face pale and weary, came to mind. The poor girl had been throwing herself eagerly into her work, missing and waiting to forget, she supposed, Mr. Bates. Her hypocrisy at sanctioning one affair over another was not lost on her.

For all his troubled past, Mr. Bates and Anna are both sensible people. Branson was what Elsie's mother would have deemed a 'rebel rouser,' and Lady Sybil was a young woman thirsty for independence but lacking in her knowledge of the world. Elsie was not sure she understood just how difficult her life could be should this…affair come to fruition.

"I thought I told you to have a care, lad?" She said.

"I have."

"This is the opposite of what I meant!" Her brogue thickened, her anger tangible on the tip of her tongue. "If someone were to find out, you would lose your job, yes, but Lady Sybil would lose her entire future."

"I know that!" Branson cried, unable to contain himself. "I've thought about the what if's, Mrs. Hughes. I've thought about the consequences –"

"See here!" She was on her feet now, hands perched on her lips, authoritarian housekeeper look in place. "You have not. Otherwise you would not be here." She sighed, exasperated. "Lady Sybil has a lot at stake to lose if this…continues. She is taking a blind leap of faith, have you thought of that?"

Yes. He had. That much was obvious from the look on his face.

"I will report you to his Lordship," Mrs. Hughes said. "Unless you rise from this table immediately and go."

"I can't just stand her up!"

"Then we are at an impass, Mr. Branson, aren't we?" Her words roared in her own ears though her voice was soft as she said them. The final word.

"I do care for her," Branson said, looking miserable as he rose from the table. "Give her this for me. It's hers."

Mrs. Hughes took the book and nearly faltered for a moment. "I know. But sometimes when we _truly c_are for another person, we have to put their well-being ahead of our wants."

~o~O~o~

Sybil watched the clock giddily from her bed, waiting for both hands to meet at the twelve before slipping from her bed and tiptoeing down the hall and the steps to the hub of servant's quarters. A light glowed in the servant's hall but it was not Branson who sat at the table.

The housekeeper looked up from the book in her lap. "Good evening, My Lady." Judging by her mannerism she was not the least bit surprised to see her, Sybil realized and felt the bottom drop out of her stomach "I sent Mr. Branson to bed. He left this with me," she held out the book. "Though I cannot say I agree explicitly with Mr. Foster his words do strike a cord. A young woman caught between convention and...love."

"Mrs. Hughes, I..."

But something in the woman's eyes made her stop. The older woman's face was kind, her gaze warm and understanding if not a little sad.

"You won't tell my mother, will you?" Sybil asked, sinking weak-kneed into a chair.

The housekeeper shook her head. "No. I wont, My Lady."

"Oh, that's good," Sybil sighed, playing with the sleeve of her nightgown. "I cannot imagine what you must be thinking of me right now. But it is not what it appears to be. A fling."

"I feared as much," Mrs. Hughes said. "But I do not think worst of you, My Lady."

Sybil frowned. "Will Branson get in any trouble?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "I threatened to tell his Lordship if he does not cease his attentions towards you. I know it is not my place to interfere so directly -"

"Oh, no," Sybil said quickly. "I understand you must. I really do. We've put you in an uncomfotable positon, I suspect. I'm terribly sorry."

"My Lady, would you," Mrs. Hughes seemed to be searching for the proper response to her apology, "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"Yes. Please."

Sybil followed the housekeeper to the kitchen and watched her take out the necessary ingrediants for hot chocolate. "I always liked this room," she told her. "I have such fond memories of it as a child."

"I remember Mr. Carson putting Lady Mary and you up on his shoulders," Mrs. Hughes laughed at the memory. "Oh, how long ago those days seem."

"Yes," Sybil agreed. "Edith would never ask him to, she said it was not proper. Even then she did not approve." Seeing the housekeeper's questioning look, Sybil explained. "She says I have a scheme for upsetting things."

"I don't think wanting an education qualifies as an insergency," Mrs. Hughes ladeled the contents of the pot on the stove into two mugs and handed her one. "My parents thought it was very important for both me and my sister to have our letters and understand sums."

"I did not know you had a sister. Are you close?"

"We are now," Mrs. Hughes smiled sympathetically.

Sybil took a sip of her hot chocolate. It was warm and comforting. "Do you know Tom, I mean Mr. Branson," she amended hastily, "He says I should go to college. So many men compliment your eyes, its nice to have one compliment your brain."

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "At the risk of sounding impertinant, you should go to college. What better way to set the world on its ear?"

Sybil laughed and finished her hot chocolate off. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she reached across the countertop and touched the other woman's hand. The housekeeper seemed surprised and genuinely touched. "Mr. Branson and I shall confine ourselves to the positions of chauffer and lady, I promise you," she said knowing full well that they would not.

~o~O~o~

The dream always begins the same, with darkness.

_Darkness so black it blinds her senses...Then a sparkle of light, like a star or a ray of sun shinning through a cloud...A tickling sensation on her neck that spreads downward to her navel...The light and sensation build simultaniously until Mary can see Kemal Pamuk, alive and warm above her, glowing with some ethereal quality._

"_Oh, my darling," he purrs._

"_I'm afraid I've mislead you," Dream Mary says, hands pressed against his chest to halt his attentions. "Your mad."_

"_Yes," he agrees between kisses. " I am in the grip of madness."_

"_I'm not what you think I am...I have never done anything..." She explains as the sensation grows. The light is bright and overwhelming._

_Dream Kemal kisses her lips, her throat, nuzzling her through the fabric of her nightgown. "Of course not. One look at you would tell me that."_

_Dream Mary speaks, her will faltering. The sensation has her in its grasp and now she feels mad, drunk from its potency. "Won't it hurt? Is it safe?"_

"_Trust me."_

_Suddenly, his handsome face contorts. He screams, crying out in pain, in death._

_The darkness returns but this time Dream Mary is falling through it, landing on her feet in the center of what appears to be a barren wasteland. The earth is cracked and red as she walks forward, drawn by a magnetic force._

_Her feet grow damp. She looks down and finds that they are covered in something crimson; blood stains the white hem of her nightgown. She presses forward towards a dark mass._

_Matthew Crawley is spread eagle on his back, like a sacrifice on an altar, slaughtered to satisfy her fear and pride._

"_Matthew! Matthew!" She falls on her knees besides him, cradling his head in her hands. "Matthew!" He cannot be the real Matthew Crawley; he must be part of her nightmare. Yet he bleeds steadily, the pulse in his neck fading under her fingertips._

_His eyes open, a faded washed out blue. His skin is pale, his breathing shallow; he is bleeding to death in her arms. Desperate she looks for a bullet hole, a wound, the cause of his injury but can find none._

"_You did not give me an answer, Mary. You did not give me an answer in time," he accuses._

"_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she moans, frantically searching for someway to stop the blood flow._

"_You have ruined everything," he murmurs and then cries out, his limbs jerking before he seizes, catatonic, and lies very still._

"_Matthew! Matthew, you cannot die! Please, Matthew, come back!"_

With a start, Mary sits up in bed, his name on her lips, her heart palpitating. "No!" She cries before she realizes where she is: not in the middle of a nightmare, rather in bed, the sheets damp with sweat and tangled around her legs.

"Oh, thank God," Mary whispers, dragging herself from bed. "It was only a dream."

But she needs to make sure. She strikes a match, lighting a candle so her reflection in the mirror becomes visible. Her face is pale and damp with perspiration, her body trembles. Mercifully, there is no blood anywhere on her body.

It's always the same dream, reoccurring since he went away. The letter she gave Carson is unreturned; no doubt Matthew destroyed it the moment he was shot of Downton. Who would blame him?

Not her.

"_You've ruined everything."_

* * *

**a/n:** If Carson lifting Mary up on his shoulders seems at all odd, I watched the special features that come with the box set and the historical adviser said that a lot of aristocratic children spent their childhoods in the servant's quarters, namely the kitchen, and that it would not be a stretch to imagine Carson picking Mary up and putting her on his shoulders.

Thank you for all the reviews. You don't know what they mean to me : )


	5. V A Coiling and Twisting Quisling

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

**a/n:** A big, fat THANK YOU to whoever nominated this story for a Highclere Award. I am so honored and touched, words cannot begin to describe it. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!

* * *

**V. A Coiling and Twisting Quisling **

_October ~ November 1914 _

Hours after Sybil bid Mrs. Hughes goodnight, she lie awake, delicious hot chocolate turning in her stomach, the milk curdling with her thoughts as she tossed from one side of the spacious bed to the other in search of sleep.

Mrs. Hughes' warning played around her head, a coiling and twisting quisling of an opinion that was not half wrong. Not the least bit wrong. Shame rushes through Sybil, intensifying the sick heat in the pit of her stomach. Much to her chagrin the housekeeper's words have struck a cord somewhere in the bowels of her conscience, the rational part of her psyche that had been hastily pushed aside by the force of Sybil's excitement.

Her tenderness for Tom, her fondness for him…heaving a great-frustrated sigh, Sybil rolled onto her back, staring up at the impenetrable darkness above her. The wealth and ornateness of her bedroom hidden in the nighttime shadows, while the thought of Tom – the memory of his lips on hers, his scent – is palatable and pulsing.

"_It is not what it appears to be. A fling." _

She had lied to Mrs. Hughes; Sybil did not love Tom. No, certainly not, she decided reflecting into the blackness overhead. She liked him a great deal; enjoyed his friendship, his enthusiasm for change, for challenging the status quo ante.

Tom Branson was unlike anyone else, she thought fondly.

"_A young woman caught between convention and…love." _

Sybil rolled onto her side, giving the goose feather pillow under her head an irritated poke. She did not love him, but she would, given some time to know him better. Tom could not call or pay court properly so how was she to achieve that? Sneaking into the garage under cover of darkness? An undignified courtship conducted over suspiciously long drives in the motor? Sybil sighed again and pressed a hand to her cramping belly; it was less than she deserved, it was less than Tom deserved.

If only he were not a chauffer…

She stayed awake until the faintest traces of morning crept in between the curtains, finally deciding that life, really was very unfair no matter who you were.

~o~O~o~

"William! Get down!"

A hand closes roughly around the back of William's jacket, sending the former footman toppling sharply backwards onto the ground just as a bullet ripped through the air. Besides him, Matthew pants, his face coated in dirt and grime, a thin stream of blood trickling from above his eye. Planes fly overhead, in the distance – too close for comfort – an explosion. Screaming. More blood.

"Are you all right?" William yelled over the noise.

"Fine!" Matthew shouted as another bomb exploded – this one dangerously close to where they lay prone. The cry sounded from their commander; the blessed order to retreat. They were going to live another day.

A soldier lay at William's left, his face pushed into the mud. Immobile. Matthew crawled to the man's side, his face set grimly knowing exactly what he'd find.

The man, clinging to life, was chocking on his last breath. Together they rolled him onto his back. The bullet Matthew had wrenched William away from was lodged in the man's neck, his blood pumping from the wound in a steady surge. It coats their hands as they try and make him comfortable. The stranger's mouth opens and shuts, his last words silenced.

Solemnly, Matthew leans forward and closes the stranger's eyes. A muscle pulses in his jaw, the skin around his mouth is tinged green.

William's chest feels tight. "That could have been me," he murmured, "Matthew -"

Matthew turns away, reaching for his gun. "Come on. We'd better get moving while we still can."

~o~O~o~

The evening post is late, per usual of these days. Mr. Carson could not repress a scowl of disapproval as he withdrew the letters from the slot by the backdoor; first war disrupted the organization of the Downton and her community, now Her Majesty's post office.

Laughter floated out from the Servants' Hall, a rarity now. A small congregation gathered now that the last of the night's chores were complete and all the doors were securely locked. Anna tended to a bit of stitching, grinning from ear to ear at something Mr. Branson had said. Mr. Molesley, pausing in his pursuit of nonexistent tarnish on the silver, chuckled. Daisy knelt by the stove, trying to coax the flames inside back to being. The tittering dies at once when Carson enters the room, he motions for them to remain seated. Everyone present has been pulling twice their weight; he won't disturb their night for long.

"Mr. Branson, this came for you with the evening post."

Branson took the parcel (more Socialism agitprop. As long as Branson refrained from sharing it with Lady Sybil he'd let the lad keep his fallacious ideas), "Thanks, Mr. Carson."

"Anna, have you seen Mrs. Hughes? This one seems to be addressed to her."

"She's in her parlor."

"Mr. Carson," Daisy stammered, blackened hands fluttering nervously before her, "Is there anything for me?"

Carson felt his irritation with the outside world melt as Daisy looked up at him, eyes frightened but stiff lipped. He'd been surprised, they all had and pleasantly so, by the girls tenacity of late. The scullery maid had grown up, astronomically, since William's departure. "No, Daisy, I'm afraid not. But you've just had a letter on Monday," he tacked on gently seeing her shoulder's drop.

"That's right," Anna added. "It's only Thursday. I'm sure William's fine."

Mr. Molesley nodded, "Don't think too much on it, Daisy," and so did Mr. Branson, the latter saying, "The post is just a might slower thanks to this bloody war."

"Mr. Branson, kindly watch your language," Carson snapped wearily, "There are ladies present."

The Irishman had the grace, or enough sense, to appear ashamed. "Apologies, Anna, Daisy."

Daisy sank to her knees, busying herself with the coal, her chin trembling.

Uncomfortable with the level of emotion in the room, Carson backed out quietly leaving Anna to console Daisy and walked the short distance from the Servants' Hall threshold to the housekeeper's sitting room. The door was open, the housekeeper too preoccupied to notice his presence. She was fussing with her appearance, fixing the hair at her temple, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like: "Oh, sod it then."

Carson cleared his throat. Mrs. Hughes looked up, meeting his gaze in the glass and flushing; one hand remained by her temple as she spun away from the looking glass, trying to smooth stray pieces of hair back without success. "Mr. Carson, you gave me a bit of a fright."

"I'm sorry," he said, privately thinking she seemed more annoyed then frightened. "If this is an inconvenient time…"

"No, stay." She moved away from the mirror, giving it a glance so hard Carson wondered how the glass did not shatter into a thousand pieces. "Well, what is it you need?" She demanded briskly.

"This came for you with the evening post."

She broke the seal almost angrily; opening the letter with such force it tore where it was folded in half. "Oh, honestly!" She snapped.

"Mrs. Hughes," he paused unsure if it was safe to continue or wiser to excuse himself, "Mrs. Hughes, is there something wrong?"

The housekeeper's flush deepened. "No. Nothing. What makes you say that?"

He gestured at the torn paper in her hand.

With a sigh, she set the two halves on her desk, careful to do so gently. "You'll think me a – a foolish, vain woman," Mrs. Hughes confessed.

"I doubt those words could ever be applied to you."

She huffed under her breath. "My hair…" She uttered these words so low he was requited to move closer to her, and she spoke them with the air of someone about to confess to a mortal sin. "My hair is turning…grey…"

"Oh," he said, stupidly.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. Unimpressed with his answer.

"I cannot tell," he was trying to salvage the conversation and spare himself from her wrath.

"At the temples." She ground out each syllable through clenched teeth.

Carson leaned in closer still, closer than proper. It was there, a few traitorous strands, but he had to squint to make them out. What was more pronounced were the lines around her eyes, the stain of tiredness beneath the lovely brown. "I cannot tell."

Her expression denounced him as a liar.

"I mean it."

Mrs. Hughes unfolded her arms, voice hollow and drained. "I know it is - frivolous. For goodness sake, there's a war on and I'm troubled over a few grey hairs."

"If you're certain. If you're sure that is all that is troubling you." Carson reached forward, on impulse, and smoothed the arrant strands of hair away from her face, tucking them back into place. Mrs. Hughes rewarded him with a small smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'm just a wee bit tired. " She shook herself, turning to the letter on her desk, gingerly holding the pieces together. "It's from a woman named Ethel Parks, inquiring about the under housemaid post. Very little experience…only employed in a small home before…Still, I don't think we're in any position to improve," she said putting the paper back.

"Not when munitions factories offer emancipation."

Mrs. Hughes smile widened a little at his tone. "If liberation is defined by breathing dust and smoke into ones lungs day in and day out. Shall I make us some tea while you fetch your book?"

"Pardon?"

"Won't you be staying?"

"No," he said, "I'm a bit tired myself." It was a lie, Carson felt wide awake, his mind liable to mull over the Crawley family and his day for another hour at least. Lady Sybil had been oddly quiet at breakfast; her oldest sister's silence was a source of worry, hers caused anxiety. Lady Sybil had the distinct air about her of someone up to some sort of mischief. Exhaustion, however, was plainly rot on Mrs. Hughes face. Carson did not want her to feel any…obligation.

"If your sure." He was certain he was imagining it, but did she sound a little put out? He did not have a moment to pounder it because just then the telephone rang in his pantry and he hurried to answer it.

"Downton Abbey, this is Carson, the butler speaking."

"Hello, Mr. Carson. This is Mr. Bates."

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Bates. What can I do for you?"

"His Lordship wanted me to cheek and see if the receipts from last month were sent. They're a little late, apparently."

Carson bristled. "I had Mr. Molesley send them a week ago. They should have been there by now."

On the other end Mr. Bates sighed. "Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'll inform his Lordship right away."

"See that you do."

"May I ask, how everyone is?" The valet hesitated, "Yourself, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, Anna…"

"I dare say. We're fine. All of us."

"Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

"Goodnight, Mr. Bates." He set the pieces back into their respective holders.

From the doorway, Mrs. Hughes smiled. "You've mastered that quite well."

"Oh, yes I suppose," he said, looking at the modern communication device with badly counseled loathing. Her smile widened, borderline cheeky. "You know, Anna's been very quiet since Mr. Bates left."

"I hadn't noticed," Mrs. Hughes replied, "Anna's a smart girl, and Mr. Bates is a good man. And that rule about followers is set in stone," she added tartly.

Carson held up his hands, mock surrender. "I wasn't casting aspersions."

"I know," Mrs. Hughes admitted, "Are you sure you don't fancy a nightcap? Oh, not that type," she rolled her eyes, "Really now."

The offer was more than tempting. Carson smothered his amusement at her blunder. "No, thank you. Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."

"Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

~o~O~o~

_Darkness, this time blue instead of black…The sound of water, lapping, gentle…A tickling, cool sensation spreading from the tips of her toes up her spine, expanding until Dream Mary is floating and rocking. _

_Her eyes peel open. Her face is damp, her hair trailing out around her like a fan as her body bobs up and down in freezing water. She lifts her head, treading water, casting about her in the dark ocean for signs of life, searching to find some sort of barring. _

_In the distance a whistle blows. Screams. Shots. People crying. _

"_Help!" Dream Mary cries, swimming forward, her nightgown floating around her. When did she learn to swim? Never mind, she pushes forward encountering objects: wooden debris, a wine glass, a woman's glove, a ball gown, a child's ball. _

_The screams grow louder, distinguishable as cries for help. Dream Mary's limbs feel tired, her waterlogged nightgown heavy. _

_She pauses, panting as she treads water, shivering from the icy sting of the water. Her fingernails have turned purple and her skin is turning blue. _

_Suddenly, Dream Mary is pulled downwards, water invading her lungs. Something is wrapped around her waist, and she struggles to break away from what feels like a human, clawing for the surface and for her attacker, spinning roughly, twisting and thrashing. _

"_Mary," someone murmurs in her ear, "It's all right, Mary." _

_It _cannot_ be. _

"_Patrick," she whispers, bubbles floating from her mouth as she utters his name. "But you're –"_

"_Dead?" He laughs, his handsome face twisting. He is as handsome in death as he was in life the only difference being the blue-purple skin and the cold glint of his eyes. "No, my dear Mary, my sweet, sweet fiancé." _

_His arms wrap around her, pulling her to his chest. She cannot move; his grasp is iron. Dream Patrick bends his head, forcing his lips against hers as Dream Mary screams. _

_They plummet down, down to the icy depths, he is drowning her, she is going to die, her body is shaking, bones splintering from the pressure, ears pounding, lungs struggling to hold on to her last breath. _

_The darkness returns and brings air back to her lungs and an odd prickling heat. Dream Mary lands on her feet in the center of a familiar barren wasteland. The earth is cracked and red as she walks forward, unwilling, the phantoms of the nightmare forcing her feet to move. _

_They grow damp. Dream Mary does not look down at the sticky blood she feels on her skin as she marches forward towards a dark mass, her stomach tightening as Matthew Crawley, spread eagle on his back bleeds steadily before her._

_Dream Mary collapses, falling to her knees, cradling his head in her hands. "Matthew! Matthew!" _

_His eyes open on her command, the lovable blue fades as life flees from his body. His skin is pale, his breathing shallow. He bleeds to death every night in her arms no matter who brings her to him, Dream Kemal or Dream Patrick. _

_She does not look for a bullet hole, a wound, the cause of his injury she knows she will not find. She pulls him into her lap, holding his as tenderly as she can. "I'm sorry, Matthew." _

_Tears trickle from her eyes, splashing onto his face. _

"_Mary," he wraps, "Why didn't you love me, Mary?" _

"_Oh, Matthew," Dream Mary bends, kissing his lips. "I did – I do -"_

_His limbs jerk, seizing, then still and almost peaceful looking. _

_And horribly realistic. _

~o~O~o~

The stars are bright overhead, blocked out by only a plume of smoke, their beauty dimmed by the smell of blood, ever present in Matthew's nostrils. The red hydrous coats everything, is everything. Blood pounds in his ears, his throat compressing inwards as he crosses his arm, trying to find a comfortable position against the rough wall of the reserve trench and jostling the lump in his jacket pocket that is Mary's letter.

He's angry, lately always angry. Matthew does not know why – does not want to think of the reasons, of the death he has born witness to, of the murder he has committed – only that anger sharpens his senses, in battle provides some clarity. Rage is an imperative to staying alive.

~o~O~o~

Edith finds comfort in the fiscals and the day-to-day running of the estate, the intercalated structure of the house and miniscule complexity of Downton. Her mother is happy to include her as she checks and approves the ledgers each month with Carson, and when a dispute between two tenants over an unlocked gate and a missing cow turns nearly feudal, Edith is amazed watching her mother disarm the two men's anger with a charming smile and a solution that states both parties and transforms them back into bosom friends.

Technically it is Mary who her mother should be teaching, always scheming and plotting new ways to keep Downton in the family, though the idea appears to have fallen off since August. Edith doubts her mother is pleased to have her help, only happy one of her daughters wants her tutelage. Mary is as insufferable as ever lethargic with despondency and Sybil is too busy ruining herself with liberalism. Edith is happy to not have to fight for her mother's undivided attention for once. To whittle the cold autumn hours in the library.

Edith lifts her gaze from the thick, leather bound book, releasing some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. Outside the window Mary walks, shoulders bent against the cold, floundering while Edith basks in the warmth of the fire, happy (and a little relieved) to discover something she is truly good at.

~o~O~o~

The grass underfoot crunches slightly as Mary wonders past the old oak tree towards the pond. She shivers as the wind rattles the barren branches of the giant oak tree, pulling her coat a little tighter before returning her hands to the warm fur muff. Pharaoh trots along up ahead, head down, tail wagging, occasionally pausing to look back over his shoulder as if checking to make sure Mary was still there.

She was, exhausted from her chronic nightmare, and trying to invalidate her guilt.

"Mary! Mary!"

Mary and Pharaoh stopped and turned; the Labrador bounded towards Sybil who was running – as best one can run in a corset – down the hill. "Sybil! Be carful or you'll fall!"

Her sister's coat flew open with the wind giving Sybil the appearance of a human butterfly, the coat trailing behind her like a pair of large blue wings. She was sans gloves and hat, a scarf hanging limply around her neck, unwrapped and ineffective.

"I've just got a letter," Sybil said brightly, "Off, Pharaoh! No jumping, you naughty thing, you!" She pushed Pharaoh off; the dog hung his head, tail limp with shame.

The piece of paper in Sybil's ungloved hand was small and dark with what appeared to be dirt or mud (or both).

"This isn't another piece of your propaganda?"

"No. And it isn't my propaganda, Mary…"

Mary rolled her eyes. "'It's the enlightenment of women everywhere.' Honestly, Sybil, you treat those little pamphlets with more reverence than you do the Bible."

"Well, they are important." Sybil looked cross, something she seldom ever was. "But, no this isn't." She shivered and pulled her coat closed.

"Let me see it." Mary held out her hand.

Sybil hesitated. "Now Mary, don't be angry with me," she said appearing slightly nervous.

"Oh, dear, nothing good ever comes from a sentence that starts like that."

"I've been writing to cousin Matthew," Sybil confessed, a pained and guilty expression on her face.

The bottom dropped out of Mary's stomach. "You've been writing to cousin Matthew," she repeated dumbly. "You've been – Oh, I see."

Sybil shook her head. "No. No, Mary, not like that." She offered Mary the letter. "Only occasionally, I thought he might like…I thought you might want to…That is…There isn't anything, at least I don't think Matthew would mind if I shared this with you."

"Oh, how kind of you," Mary's voice was hard and biting. Sybil took a step backwards as Mary stared down at the letter as if it was something unpleasant she had stepped it. "You thought wrong, then, didn't you?"

"It isn't – Matthew and I are only friends – I know how much you – I would never!" Sybil stumbled her face turning a light shade of pink.

She began to walk away, shaking, her anger warming her body so she no longer felt the chilling air. "Come on, Pharaoh!"

"Mary, please. You cannot be this stubborn."

"Go back inside," Mary said her voice now colder than ever, "You'll catch your death dressed like that."

~o~O~o~

Across the English Channel William and Matthew blinked into the bright sunlight, blinded as Paris shimmered around them in early winter. The sun felt warmer, the sky bluer, and the air had lost some of its brisk edge. Life was almost tangible away from the trenches.

William's mouth hung opened as Paris, unlike anything he could conceive of, bustled around their small part; Matthew and two captains names Pierce and Johnson. Yesterday their C.O. barked, roughly: "Crawley, Pierce, Johnson, Mason. You've got leave. Four days in Par-eee."

_And I thought Downton and London during the season are grand,_ William shook his head, dumbstruck and knowing he looks hopelessly uncultured in the face of the long avenue lined by beautiful shop windows; the Parisians elegant as they hurried from place to place, every movement refined and gentle.

He lifts his face to the sun he has not seen in an age, basking in the warm glow, blinking away the battlefield and stretching his muscles sore from five hours spent bumping over dusty roads pitted in potholes in the back of an army vehicle. The sound of grenades and gunfire growing softer until the noise equivalent of blood and death is just a badly forgotten memory.

Soldiers similarly dressed stalk up and down the sidewalks. Pierce and Johnson elbow each other as a gorgeous woman walks by, catcalling and whistling.

William, embarrassed to be seen with two such animals, falls into step besides Matthew who has his head lowered against the glare. "Come on. Let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do."

Matthew frowned. "William, for the final time, I didn't do anything."

"Come off it," William insisted.

Ahead of them Pierce and Johnson run to a street vender selling peanuts, jeering at his dancing monkey, throwing several _francs_ into the man's hat. Matthew turns around, squinting in the horizon. William looks from the dancing monkey – who is throwing his hat into the air – to the Eiffel Tower in the distance. _Daisy, you won't believe me. _

Behind the man a _fleuriste_, a _patiserie,_ and a _photographe_ stand out in sharp contrast to one another, the storefronts a varied display of color and wares. Matthew nudges his shoulder. "Come on. If you must repay me – for something I did not do – you can buy me a croissant."

Their waitress causes William to do a double take; at first glance she looks like Anna, identical almost. On closer inspection her cheeks are too thin, her smile as she brings them pastries and flirts shamelessly with them in broken English does not reach her eyes.

Matthew leans towards her, a smile on his face for the first time since training. Uncomfortable, William stairs at the _photographe _for a distraction.

"Were are ye goin'?" Pierce demands when he and Johnson come to see if the waitress will flirt with them as well.

"None of your business," William snaps, "I'll be right back."

After several painful moments of gesturing and rudimentary French-English, William makes his purchase and walks out of the shop, a spring in his step. The owner promises to send the present to Downton once the film develops.

"What did you get?" Matthew asks.

"A present. For Daisy."

Matthew is suddenly weary. "Not a ring?"

"What? No!" William blushes and Pierce and Johnson snicker at his discomfort. "Where are we going?"

"Madeline," Matthew points to the waitress who waits by the door of the bakery, a coat draped over her arm. "Wants to introduce us to some of her friends."

Johnson drapes a fat arm across William's shoulder. "Perks of soldership, Brown Nose" he laughs.

"Matthew, I don't-"

But Matthew was already helping Madeline with her coat.

"Come on, spoil-sport," Pierce snickers.

Pierce grabs his one arm and Johnson takes the other, dragging him to a bar several streets over. William can't see the Eiffel Tower; the houses lean into the streets blocking out the robins egg blue sky.

The tiny space is packed with bodies: men in uniform and beautiful women lining the room, talking, laughing, shouting, crying. Glitter and confetti line the floor; the tabletops are sticky. Mr. Carson would never approve of such a dirty counter. Madeline leaves them at the bar and they purchase beer.

"No," William said when Matthew reached for his wallet, "First ones on me."

"Jesus," Pierce snorted, "'Ave a look at that bird, Brown Nose."

William tries to focus on the alcohol sliding down his throat rather than the curvaceous red head Pierce is pointing rather rudely at. "I'm not a free man," he tells his companion.

Johnson laughed. "Neither is he."

Madeline reappeared, three of her friends in tow. Another blond (Chloe) and two brunettes (Antoinette and Claire), the dark haired girls attached themselves to Pierce and Johnson who twirl them away towards the dance floor.

Madeline attaches herself to Matthew's side; he does not object, pulling her closer to his side and bending his mouth to her ear. Madeline throws her head back, laughing long and hard.

"_Voulez-vous la danse?" _Chloe asked, giving him an appraising look.

"Ah…"

She heaved him up from the bar stool by his shoulder - stronger than William could have imagined for such a slip of a girl – and marched him towards the dance floor.

"I think there has been some mistake, mademoiselle," William said as she began to parade him about the dance floor with the other couples.

Underneath long, dark lashes Chloe stairs vapidly up at him. Her lips are smothered in some sticky red paint. Her perfume invades his noise, wagging a kind of new hypnotizing war. She presses closer, feeling soft and feminine, hanging onto his uniform with fake adoration. Her nails dig into his shoulders.

Mrs. Hughes ironed the uniform herself. The thought of what she would say to see him now dancing with a…a scarlet woman. She would disapprove and his mother and a whole host of others of him dancing, even coerced merrymaking, with this girl.

"Mademoiselle, I'm sorry!" He says loudly, breaking away and heading back towards the table were he last saw Matthew, looking around for his friend.

Across a room of couples, Matthew bends Madeline over for a breathless kiss; she leads him, giggling, by the hand up a set of stairs.

William picked up his beer then put it down when he saw the amount of glitter floating on the surface. Outside the sky is blue, and he won't ever get a chance to be in Paris again even if he survives this war. He abandons his drink and his friends, wondering outside. He can just make out the iron top of the Eiffel Tower and begins to walk towards it.

**tbc...**


	6. VI Keep Calm, Carry On

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**VI. Keep Calm, Carry On**

_November ~ Early December 1914_

"Penny for them?"

Anna nearly leapt out of her skin and up from the low bench. Across the yard, Mr. Molesley waved smiling good-natured, wrapped in numerous layers of clothing, just as she was, against the climate. She must seem out of place in the cold yard, sitting perfectly still and silent, mind turning and when that became too much, reaching out with her subconscious trying to feel Mr. Bates steady and sure presence juxtapose to those inside.

There was a great deal to ponder. The war waged on day by day, but the newspapers reported optimism despite the Marne, Antwerp, and Ypres and in face of their very existence. Life carried on at Downton, for her at least, without much of a change. The most troubling, Lady Mary's peculiar weariness.

_Never mind,_ Anna forced her mouth into something she hoped resembled a smile. "Penny for what?"

"Your thoughts." Molesley crossed the yard in a few long strides. His footing sure despite the icy surface on the ground.

"How was your half day?"

"Good. I helped my father cover the rose bushes in his garden." He bore down on the cobblestone, under his shoes the frost cracked and splintered. "It's going to snow soon. Any day now."

Anna nodded, not really listening, her thoughts distracting. Up ahead the sun beat down, bright yet cold in that odd way the sun had of shinning in wintertime.

Molesley gestured to the bench. "May I join you?"

Unable to say no without sounding very rude indeed, Anna shifted over and Molesley took Mr. Bates customary spot.

"Do you have a fondness for this place?" He asked while rubbing his gloved hands together.

"A fondness?" _Yes. It is a lovely place of peace and privacy. The secret place, where my beloved and I escape from the house. _

"Yes," Mr. Molesley affirmed, "Only, I see you sitting out here from time to time."

"There…is a lovely view," Anna lied.

Mr. Molesley took a moment to examine the 'view,' the rather rough configuration of the east wall. He appeared uncertain of whether or not she was teasing him, Anna supposed the heaviness she felt must show in her face because he took her esteem of the 'view' seriously and changed the subject, his eyes squinting-small and slightly worried. "Is something bothering you, Anna? You seemed very lost in thought before I interrupted you."

Anna shook her head. "No, Mr. Molesley. Nothing is bothering me."

If Mr. Bates where sitting besides her, if he had asked, Anna would have told him her concern for Lady Mary's bearing, how she appeared frightfully ill some mornings when Anna went in with the breakfast tray, impossible to rouse on occasion. She didn't think Mr. Molesley was the type to go around spreading gossip, but Lady Mary had taken her into confidence before. Anna could only justify a divulgence to someone she trusted unreservedly. She would write to Mr. Bates, share her worries on paper.

~o~O~o~

In a small office, behind a polished desk too large for the room and cluttered with papers, problems, life and death Lord Grantham leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose as an ache pounded in his head.

"We have to do better, Bates," he told the man standing by the large window, the office's one redeeming quality. "After that bloody business in Ypres – Mr. Crawley and William were both in that blood bath…"

"They're both fine, My Lord," Mr. Bates countered even toned and stoic. "In Paris on leave for part of the conflict."

"…And the horses – God in heaven, at this rate we might as well have a separate mortality rate for horses – nearly four dozen Calvary dead in one foul swoop…"

"My Lord, we're doing the best we can."

~o~O~o~

The wind nipped viciously at the countryside, pummeling the frozen ground from every angle. Winter was coming on early; a long, unexpectedly dry winter.

Many a parent and widow grieved from a Notification of Death - official War Office paper, the ink barely dry on the page, expressing condolences, regret, and emphasizing the honor of the dead soldier – when at long last one of the village's own returned from the trenches, his eyes sunken, veiled, and embittered. Two years earlier Mrs. Crawley spared John Drake's life, unable to foresee the loss of his leg.

Drake created quite a stir in the village and up at Downton Abbey. He limped through the churchyard one Sunday morning, leaning heavily on a crutch, more ghost than man. Mrs. Drake trailed after her husband, holding her children by the hand, chin turned up against the gapping stairs of her neighbors.

"Daisy," Mrs. Patmore hissed, "Close your mouth. You'll catch flies."

The girl could barley contain her shock and curiosity into a polite expression unlike most of the staff who deliberately looked anywhere but at Drake and his solitary family.

"Edith," Lady Grantham hissed from the corner of her mouth. "Stop staring."

"I'm not," Edith argued, quickly lowering her ill-mannered gaze to her clasped hands.

"That poor man," the Dowager Countess whispered to her daughter-in-law as they cut a path through the small crowd to the church door. "Mrs. Crawely did him a grandiose injustice."

Meanwhile the stories - of the most alarming wartime glory - ran rampart. Like plague the rumors were hot and sickening; some saying that men on the Western front gorged themselves on rats when foodstuffs ran low, or that the German army ate babies.

"Don't be so gullible," Mrs. Patmore snapped when Daisy recounted the later to her.

"It's true, Mrs. Patmore. I heard it from someone who's heard it from someone who's heard it from Mr. Drake himself." She nodded, solemn and wise.

O'Brien sneered, setting Lady Grantham's tea tray down forcefully. "Don't be daft!"

The scullery maid returned to what the cook cheerfully referred to as 'pounding the living dickens' out of the doe. Whenever she got tired she was cheerfully instructed to think of the Kaiser. "That could have been, William, though couldn't it have?"

"But it wasn't," Anna said, her voice firm and controlled. "William's just fine. You've just had a letter."

"I don't know if I'd care to live if it was me," O'Brien remarked.

"I know what you mean. He's a farmer isn't he?" Mrs. Patmore asked the group at large. "How's he supposed to work if he can't walk?"

"He can walk." Anna looked fiercely determined. "His gate may not be what it was, but there's more to live for. His wife. His children."

"Drake can't support those brats," O'Brien challenged, the old cruel spark a light in her eyes. "He's family's ruined with or without him."

Anna opened her mouth to disagree; Mrs. Patmore cut her off with a shake of her head, sighing heavily. "That's the sad fact of it."

~o~O~o~

Sybil sipped her tea in silence, half listening to the conversation flitting around the drawing room, ideally imagining Tom; jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up, that look of concentration on his face while he tinkered with the engine.

The conversation was dull at best. _Silly really, it's illegal for women to place a ballot and they're more concerned with the utter lack of balls and fetes. _

"There's a horrid lack of parties," The Dowager Countess said, tisking slightly.

"People want to commemorate the men fighting." Edith sat up a little straighter. It looked like she was trying to imitate their mother's posture and mannerisms. "It's only fitting that we adjust our attitude."

Across the table, Mary rolled her eyes. Sybil stifled a grin; her sister had been cool and standoffish since last week when Sybil tried to share Matthew's letter.

The Dowager Countess fixed Edith with a stern glare. Her sister seemed to shrink slightly backwards. "No. It is not. It's letting the Germans win. Now, a little song and dance would restore morality to the home front. You're home in particular," she turned her sharp gaze upon Lady Grantham, "could use some merriment. I have never seen so many gloomy faces. Certainly not in my time."

"I agree," Sybil said, then seeing her mother's indignant expression added, "Not that we are all so gloomy. That there are things we can do to help fight the Germans. Nursing for one, like Mrs. Crawley."

"We might roll bandages," Edith suggested, eagerly.

"Honestly, Edith," Mary sighed, "That is a ridiculous idea."

"Oh, no," Sybil gushed. "It's not. Virginia Marshbank and her step-mother Lady Winsly manage to roll fifty bandages a weak between them."

Mary gave a haughty laugh. "Lady Winsly's female staff rolls fifty bandages a weak is more like it."

"We must do our part," Edith insisted, looking in first her mother and then her grandmother's direction for support.

Lady Grantham nodded. "Quite right, darling. Everyone must do what they can. Already we abide by the rationing regulations laid down by the War Office-"

"Which is why your tea tray is so diminished," The Dowager Countess chimed.

"...We watch the sugar, the tea, the coffee..."

"We can do more than use one lump of sugar in place of two," Edith said, her voice wavering higher. "Between the five of us we can manage fifty bandages a week easily."

"Here, here," Sybil agreed, proudly. Tiny steps to autonomy. "I received a letter from Mrs. Crawley just a day or two ago. She writes that the field hospitals need all the help they can get."

"I agree," Lady Grantham said a smile coming slowly to her face. "It is an excellent idea, Edith."

"If we get Anna, and Mrs. Hughes, and Miss O'Brien, and all the female staff involved we can surpass the fifty bandage mark with ease," Sybil exclaimed. "Why we may even get the men involved! What do you think, Carson?"

The butler was saved from responding by Edith. "Just think: one of our bandages could end up saving a life. Maybe even Cousin Matthew-"

"Will you bite your tongue!" Mary cried jumping to her feet so suddenly she almost upset the teacart. She turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

Lady Grantham, a look of long suffering mild exasperation on her face, turned to her. "Sybil, tell Mary to come back at once."

When Sybil found Mary in her bedroom she was crying, one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her sobs.

"Mary..."

"I'm fine!" She chocked, holding up a hand as if to ward off Sybil's concern.

"No you're not. I can see you're not." Sybil sat down besides her on the bed and put a comforting arm across her shoulders. Her sister's normal pale skin was tinged with grey, a hint of shadow underneath the eyes.

"I'm such a fool, Sybil," Mary whispered, more to herself. "Such a fool."

There was no denying that.

"Why did you do it?" Sybil asked, tentatively. "Why did you put Cousin Matthew off?"

Mary stiffened. Slowly, very slowly, she stood up and crossed to the window, wiping a hand over her face, eroding any physical evidence of tears.

"I'm your sister," Sybil pleaded, "You can tell me anything. I would never judge you-"

"Everyone is jugging me!" Mary snapped, her sorrow turning to anger in a flash. "It's my fault Matthew is away fighting instead of home. He left because I jilted him, because I was unsure, because I was so stubborn and so prideful and..."

Sybil saw it, then, an emotion she had never seen before on her oldest sister's normal steely-stoic continence. "You were afraid? Why, Mary?"

Mary shook her head. Stubborn. Prideful. "Please go. I'm tired. I think I have a headache; I'm sure of it."

"Mary-"

"You're a darling, Sybil," Mary said, "But I'm a lost cause."

~o~O~o~

Mary stood in the center of the bachelors corridor frozen like a stone statue, enchanted by the portrait hanging before her. The red hair, slightly wavy and large brown eyes made from oil rather than flesh stared out at her from the gilded frame. A strange heat pricked her eyes. Tears

"My Lady."

She looked over her shoulder, blinking rapidly and clearing her throat. "Good evening, Carson."

The butler towered over her like a gentle giant with his small smile and concerned expression. "Are you well, My Lady?"

Mary looked back at Patrick's portrait. "Have you ever had a nightmare, Carson?"

"When I was a boy," Carson's voice was a deep rumble, "I used to have this particular dream where I was falling, and I had to wake myself up or else…"

The silence lapsed around them.

"Sometimes…Sometimes I feel as if I can never appreciate what I have until it's too late. Until it's been taken from me." Mary fought to maintain control of her voice; her eyes burned.

Carson eyed Patrick's portrait as well. "I think everyone's experienced that particular guilt at one time or another."

As Mary wiped her eyes Carson laid a hand on her shoulder. "The trick to remember, about, nightmares, My Lady, is that they are only a phantom of…"

"…Of my imagination," Mary gave him a tremulous smile. "That always helped when I was a child."

Carson smiled down at her and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Myself as well."

~o~O~o~

"I am so sorry, Branson."

Sybil leant up to the small partition separating driver from passenger, a soft line in between her eyebrows as her face arranged itself into an expression of deep contrition, perhaps she withered the past few weeks wrestling as he had with pangs of conscience.

Or maybe regret causes her to glance feverantly over her shoulder for observers. Needlessly, as they've left Downton and the village far behind for an unpaven country rode towards Ripon.

"I'm sorry if you got into any trouble on my account, Branson."

His hands slip on the steering wheel, distracted gaze flying to the rearview mirror. "Is it back to that then. I thought-"

Sybil – _Lady _Sybil – sighs, frustrated. "I know and I know what I said. And I know how I feel," she adds almost as an afterthought. "But I won't be the reason you lose your job. Was Mrs. Hughes very angry?"

"Oh, yes." Branson's heart is beating a little too unevenly, and his voice has a bitter edge (the crease between Sybil's eyes lengthening slightly.) "She'd told me off once before. Said I hadn't thought what – what being with me will do to your reputation. She said if I had I wouldn't be there." He paused, chest heaving, taking a deep breath and tightening his sweaty grip on the wheel. "She's one to talk. Janus-faced when she walks arm and arm with Mr. Carson every bloody-"

"Well she's right!" Sybil snapped so irate Branson forgets his frustration with the housekeeper and the class system for a moment. "I hadn't thought about the consequences of – you and me. You will lose your job, and you will not be able to find another in service, Papa will be so furious that he'll make sure of it. And anyway, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson have only a platonic relationship. Why shouldn't they be aloud to walk however they please? Honestly, Tom," she leaned back, arms folded over her breast, "You can be very unkind and infuriating when you're like this."

"What about you?" Branson demanded, his voice much quieter. Choosing to ignore her last statement.

"What about me?" Sybil huffed. _Lord, she's beautiful when she's mad at me._ Her face flushed and her eyes bright.

"What about your future, M'Lady?"

She stared at him, startled out of her pique. "You mean the future my parents want me to have?" Branson chuckled in disbelief; Sybil clamped a hand over her mouth in shock as if she had just uttered something blasphemous. Slowly, she lowered her hand, muttering something like: "Oh, how silly. Really," Before turning her gaze to the window and declaring emphatically, "I don't know what my future will be, yet…But I want you to be a part of it, Tom."

"Do you mean it?" Branson turns around to look at her fully, daringly hopeful.

She tilts her chin up, holding her head high copying Lady Mary's haughty barring, the one that ensnared Mr. Crawley. "Of course, I do," Sybil's mouth tugs upwards in a smile, faux-aloofness disappearing. "Silly. Tom, look out!"

"What?" He whirled around. Just in time to prevent them from colliding head on with a cart and horse. The farmer cursed, shaking his fist as they passed. "Sorry! Sorry! We'll have to be careful," Tom said, feeling suddenly buoyant. All his Christmases and birthdays had come at once. "I won't have you brought down for loving me."

Sybil's eyes widen "Love?"

Love? _Jesus Christ man pull yourself together._ His face felt uncomfortably hot.

"You're blushing, Mr. Branson," Sybil giggled. "The backs of your ears are the most adorable shade of scarlet."

Branson cleared his throat. "Where to, M'Lady? Do you have a destination in mind?"

"The department store," Sybil replied, "I need to do my Christmas shopping. The fact that you'll be with me only makes the season brighter."

~o~O~o~

A blue car speed past her on the drive, the type Constance and Nora Talmadge drove on their way to a Hollywood premier. Ethel knew her new employers would be wealthy, but that car…

And then Downton Abbey came into view and Ethel was speechless, almost dropping her suitcase and carpet bag as she craned her neck to see the entire castle – for that was what Downton was, certainly – better.

She marched up to the front door, pausing a moment to straighten her hat before ringing the bell.

A tall man dressed smartly in a black suite opened the door. His stomach was slightly broad, and his nose and eyebrows were extremely large, or bushy as the case may be. "How may I help you?" He asked seeming confused by her appearance. Ethel saw him take in the threadbare material of her coat and shabby hat.

"Yes, you may. My name is Ethel Parks and I'm here about the under housemaid position."

The man looked down his nose at her. "Miss Parks, staff are required to use the service entrance at all time," he said with a very grave air. "It's just round the side of the house."

"Oh," Ethel stuttered as he began to close the front door. "Couldn't I – couldn't I come through the front door just this once?"

The man's bushy eyebrows drew together giving him an almost hawkish appearance. "Absolutely not." He sounded quite affronted.

"I suppose I shall see you in a moment then."

"I dare say."

"What a snob," Ethel muttered under her breath, pulling her thin coat tighter around her body as she stomped in the direction of the service entrance. _Really, of all the stupid highbrow things. It was just a bloody door. _

She found it easily enough, through a courtyard, boxes and crates stacked on either side. A young woman in a coat buttoned up to her chin sat on a bench in the yard, intent on something in her lap.

"Hello," Ethel said.

The woman stood up, a far away look in her eyes. Whoever she was she was a million miles from Downton. _Can't say I blame her._ "You must be Miss Parks," she held out a gloved hand for Ethel to shake, "I'm Anna. Head housemaid."

"Please, call me Ethel." She shook Anna's hand. _At least one person here has manners._ "How do you do?"

"Fine."

Ethel saw Anna tuck a letter into her pocket. A love letter?

"You'll want to get settled, I imagine? Come with me and I'll introduce you to Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper."

The servants' quarters were oddly still but pleasantly warm. Anna pointed to a doorway on her right. "That's the servants' hall and right through there is the kitchen. The cooks name is Mrs. Patmore," Anna smiled over her shoulder, "Best to keep on her good side."

"Anna, have you seen the silver polish?" Asked a man coming down the stairs. He was extremely thin with a bald spot at the crown of his head. "I can't find it and I've looked just about everywhere. Oh, who's this?"

"Mr. Moseley, this is Ethel Parks the new under maid. Ethel this is Mr. Molesley, first footman."

"Delighted, Miss Parks," Mr. Molesley said, shaking her hand before excusing himself.

"This is the butler's pantry. The butler's name is Mr. Carson-"

"I think I've met him," Ethel admitted, "Tall elderly man, big nose, bit fat…"

Anna's eyes widened in surprise. "Ethel, you shouldn't talk about Mr. Carson that way. He's a nice man. And this is the housekeeper's sitting room."

Mr. Carson was standing behind the desk, unable to hide the look of offense on his face. A rather stern woman rose to her feet, her mouth drawn into a thin line. "Thank you, Anna." She swept an eye over her; Ethel fought the urge to take a step backwards. "I'll take it from here."

Anna left her alone with the very angry housekeeper.

"I don't know how it was where you worked before, Ethel, here at Downton we make it a point not to insult our superiors."

"Yes, ma'am," Ethel replied meekly.

"Now, Downton is a very great house and a very proud one at that. That means certain standards must be upheld; you're expected to be in uniform at all times except for on your half days and gentlemen followers are to be discouraged. We are," she shared a look with Mr. Carson, "short hand because of the war, so you may be called to perform jobs that would not normally be asked of you. If you have any questions you should come to me or Anna, is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ethel did not dare say no.

Mrs. Hughes nodded, eyes flashing ominously. "Good. I'll show you your room so you can get settled," her eyes settled on Ethel's battered suitcase. "You can begin work tomorrow."

~o~O~o~

Anna set the tea tray down on the kitchen countertop. Ethel was hovering in the doorway, which was a problem when Mrs. Hughes had asked her to dust the bookshelves in the library. Ethel's first few weeks had not been promising, she completed her work quickly and sloppily. It did not help that Ethel's predecessor had been a hard worker; Anna knew that she and the rest of the staff could not stop making subconscious comparisons between Ethel and Gwen.

"Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore shouted. "That girl will be the death of me," she told Anna seriously.

Daisy appeared a moment later, a package clutched close to her chest.

"What took you so long, girl?"

"I've got a parcel," Daisy said wide-eyed, stupefied. "It's from Paris."

"Is this a public holiday that I haven't been made aware of?" Mrs. Hughes demanded as she walked through the door. "Ethel, have you seen to those shelves in the library?"

"Daisy's got a package from Paris," Mrs. Patmore said.

"From Paris?" O'Brien paused as she picked up Lady Grantham's breakfast tray. "Well don't just stand there you limp noodle. Open it."

With trembling fingers, Daisy untied the string and broke open the brown paper to reveal an ornate paper box wrapped in a pink ribbon. She lifted the lid, the other women peering over her shoulder.

"Oh, my," Mrs. Hughes whispered as Daisy lifted the tissue paper.

Inside was a picture of William, dressed in his uniform, smiling out of a tiny frame alongside a card. Daisy snatched it up, eyes racing across the page. "He's fine. He's well and safe."

"That's excellent, Daisy," Anna said, reminded once again with a blunt stab of self-reproach that however much she missed Mr. Bates at least he was just in London, unlike William and Mr. Crawely.

"Oh, he's a bit funny looking, though," Ethel said ruefully, "I mean that hat makes his ears look awfully big. I thought followers weren't permitted."

Anna could not believe her ears, apparently neither could Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore because they both started in on Ethel at exactly the same time.

"…William, is a courageous young man who does Downton proud…"

"…You've a brain no larger then a pea and common sense to match…"

"…See here, if I ever hear you speak such nonsense again while there's work to be done you'll be out of this house quicker then you can count to ten. Don't push your luck, Ethel."

"That's an awful thing to say!" Anna said as the cook and housekeeper turned the new maid, now beat red in the face and almost crying, out of the room.

"Especially when he isn't half as goof looking as he actually is in this picture, Daisy," O'Brien said.

Daisy frowned as the ladies maid swept from the room. "Oh, you're not better than her," she muttered under her breath.

"I think its wonderful, Daisy," Anna assured her. "Very thoughtful-"

"Oh, yes very romantic," Mrs. Patmore smirked as Daisy traced William's form under the glass, a tender expression on her face. "Go put that away. And quickly girl!" With a shake of her head she turned to Mrs. Hughes who was still fuming. "Now you know how it feels to have to work with someone so incredulously simple."

~o~O~o~

In the last few hours, William bares witness to an endless brigade of death and destruction. Growing up on a small farm, he routinely helped his father slaughter the family's super; blood does not bother him, even huge quantities. The barbarity of war incenses him. The mindless brigade of life lost in the muck and mire. There is nothing honorable in the fighting, no reason or rhyme to the attacks they launch only a pressing urgency to fight and die.

But to what purpose? What end?

Always gaining a little then losing some ground. Senseless. William wonders what his mother must think, if she would recognize him.

Blood is everywhere: on the ground and in the air. The metallic sting assaults his nose, burning, poisons the very air he breathes. It stains his hands as well as his uniform, the one Mrs. Hughes pressed and ironed, his number sewn above the right breast pocket by her own hand (he wonders what she would think of him too).

A good servant retains a sense of pride and dignity that reflects the pride and dignity of the family he serves. Mr. Carson avowed the importance of personal appearance, keeping the uniform clean, exemplary. The smack does not sting so much now.

It all seems so very far away from the smell of blood and death that clings to the air, that clings to him.

His fingers tremble, he almost drops the cigarette a friendly medic shoved into his hand; his ears are still ringing, the world is muffled. For now the trench on the opposite side of No Man's Land is quiet, peaceful. Tending to the wounded, gathering the dead. _Like us._

He took a shaky breath. Coughed. The quiet never lasted for long.

~o~O~o~

Lady Grantham sat in the library, perched on the edge of her chair, ears pricked, posed for the exact moment when the telephone in the front hall would ring and Robert's voice would fill her ear. Though he wrote, his biweekly phone calls were in and of themselves a blessing.

The phone rang. Thank God for modernization.

"Hello, Robert."

"Hello, sweetheart." His voice was tired and she pressed him. Was he getting enough sleep? "I'm fine, Cora. Really. How are you? How are our girls? How is Downton?"

She rolled her eyes at the anxiety that underlined the name of his family home. "We're fine. The girls are a little restless what with the lack of society but the house is still standing."

On the other end, Robert chuckled. "I fear when I return I shall have no purpose. You have been running Downton and keeping the books so efficiently."

Cora laughed. "Who told you that?"

"Carson did. Not that I am not needed, just that you are a 'pillar of strength' and example to the entire community."

"That was kind of him. You are certainly needed," Cora sighed. "I need you, darling."

"Christmas is right around the corner," her husband reassured her, his voice calm, reasonable. "I arrive on the twenty-first."

"Having you home will be the best present any of us have ever received."

"I have to go, sweetheart. Same time next week?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Robert."

"Goodnight, my love."

Cora set down the instrument and wondered back to her seat in the library, heart heavy in her breast, throat tight. Pharaoh padded over and laid his big head in her lap, looking up at her with woebegone eyes.

"I know boy," Cora told the dog, scratching him behind the ears, "I miss him too."

~o~O~o~

Ethel picked up her dust cloth, wiping sweat from her brow. Mrs. Hughes, the miserable old harpy, had given her a long list of chores out of spite.

In the hallway her ladyship was speaking into the phone, the doe-eyed expression in her eyes not entirely dissimilar to the one Daisy wore when talking about William (all she ever talked about).

Lady Grantham hung up the phone. Ethel hid behind the library door, watching her new mistress a woman she had seldom seen since arriving, sink into the sofa a tense, lost look on her face. The family dog, tail wagging, put his head into her lap.

Lady Grantham scratched the dog behind the ears. "I know boy, I miss him to."

Ethel, feeling suddenly shamefaced as though she was intruding on something intensely private, backed away carefully and slipped down the servants' stairs into the kitchen. The door to the butler's pantry was open an inch, she leaned forward.

"…He doesn't look like I remember him. I keep thinking, has it really been so long?"

Mr. Carson reached out, squeezing the housekeeper's shoulder gently. "You're worried," he said gently.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. Were those tears in her eyes? "I always am these days."

"Snoop."

Ethel whirled around. Miss O'Brien glared at her from underneath that horrid curly fringe. "I'm sorry, I -"

The ladies maid's eyes glinted maliciously. "I can't think of what Mrs. Hughes will say, she doesn't take kindly to little, lazy spies."

"Leave her alone."

O'Brien threw a dirty look over her shoulder at the handsome Mr. Branson who was standing in a thick coat and scarf having just come in from outside, arms full with logs for the upstairs fires.

"Go on, then, it's only her second week."

O'Brien dispersed throwing one last nasty look over her shoulder at them.

"Sorry 'bout her," Branson smiled, "She's a right piece of work."

"Thanks ever so," Ethel said, looking shyly up at him through her eyelashes.

~o~O~o~

"Our home! One hundred and thirty-seven people dead – no warning – another five hundred – at least – wounded!" Lord Grantham threw down the morning paper, stalking back and forth across his office. "We have civilian casualties, mind you."

Bates peered over the edge of the desk at the headline and subtitle: STRIKE ON ENGLAND: RAID ON SCARBOROUGH, HARTLEPOOL, AND WHITBY.

"It was a cowardly thing to do," Bates agreed.

"Blast it! What the bloody hell are the German's playing at!" Lord Grantham crossed to the desk and picked the newspaper up again. "And why didn't anyone in the Home Security department envisage it first?"

"My Lord," Mr. Bates said, as calmly and quietly as he knew, "You've done the best you can."

Lord Grantham stopped in his tracks, shoulders loosening, the rigid agitation retreating. His fervid expression slackened. "I should call home. This will have created quite a stir."

The valet nodded, moving in the direction of the door. "I'll give you some privacy."

~o~O~o~

Daisy was in a state of nervous collapse. Never mind the fact Downton was landlocked and nowhere near Scarborough, Hartlepool, or Whitby. O'Brien let out a derisive snort, the frightened girl's voice echoing from the kitchen as she mounted the back steps, her Majesties tea tray in hand.

"…But what if they bomb Downton…?'

"Why ever would they do that?" Mrs. Patmore demanded, exasperation making her shrill. "We 'aven't got anything the German's want!"

"…But they're evil, I mean, they're supposed to eat babies -"

O'Brien was too far away to here the cooks reply. "Worse than a penny dreadful," she muttered, shaking her head at Daisy's nonsense. "The claptrap ideas that run through her head."

When she opened the countesses' bedroom door, Lady Grantham was standing by the side of the bed, one hand clutching her lower abdomen, her face wearing a lightly pained expression.

"Good morning, O'Brien," she said with a tight, little smile. "I'm afraid…Well, I've had some what of an accident."

She pulled back the heavy winter duvet. The white sheets underneath bore a dull red-rust like stain, the countess' monthly course.

O'Brien swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat, the room was suddenly very cold yet stifling all at once. "That's quite all right, M'Lady. I'll fetch a Sanitary Napkin, and a clean night gown for you."

"Thank you, O'Brien." The smile trembled on her face. "I thought I was through with this business after…When it hadn't come since…" She drew in a deep, shaky breath before hastily composing herself again. "I think I would like to dress and go down to the dinning room for breakfast today."

"Of course," O'Brien said, picking out Lady Grantham's best blue frock and the matching skirt. She went about changing her, making her immaculate before stripping the sheets while Lady Grantham took a sip of tea.

"O'Brien have you seen the headline?"

"Yes, M'Lady."

"My word!" Lady Grantham set her teacup down, unfurling The Post. A knock sounded on the door. O'Brien went to answer it. Mr. Carson stood there, somewhat heavy handed.

"His Lordship is on the phone – in my pantry," he said, voice low, "He wants a word with her Ladyship – A private word."

~o~O~o~

Cora descended the stairs – the back ones, her feet echoing strangely. Her body felt weighted and strained as if it was being wrung, passing through a washboard; bloated with pain and heavy from grief. She'd want for the hot water bottle and her bed soon enough.

She did her best to conceal it from her staff who where cluttered in the hallway, their breakfast uneaten. She waved her hand in dismissal. "Please sit. I don't want to disrupt your breakfast. Mrs. Hughes, has Anna finished dressing the girls?"

"Not yet, My Lady."

Cora nodded, satisfied and went into the pantry, shut the door, and picked up the ear and mouthpiece. "Robert."

"Cora," he said, just her name, a soft and loving sigh. "Cora."

"Robert," she swallowed, "What is going on?"

She heard papers ruffling, imagined him fiddling with a page or two then running a hand over his face. "The German's took advantage of our stunted Navy."

"Civilian casualties," Cora recounted, "Women and – children. How did your Navy let this happen?"

Robert made a noise of indignation in the back of his throat. "My Navy? I'm just as outraged as you are, darling."

"I know," Cora admitted.

"I wanted to make sure everyone was sound."

"Robert, this house runs more efficiently when there is some degree of trouble." Cora shivered mentally recalling the morning the Titanic sank and the sunny afternoon Britain went to war with Germany. "Of course, I haven't talked to your daughters yet."

"My daughters?" Robert chuckled, "Goodness, what have they done now?"

"Oh, its nothing. I don't want to distract you."

On the other end her husband exhaled heavily. "I want to be distracted."

Cora pushed her mortification from earlier that morning aside. "Sybil is always fired up on some tangent or another, and Mary and Edith coexist as well as oil and water."

"Is Mary still sulking over Matthew."

"I'm afraid so, but you know Mary, she's putting up a brave front," Cora wound the telephone's cord around one finger.

"Well, she'll have to what with his mother coming for Christmas. How are you keeping?"

Cora's eyes misted slightly. "Fine."

She heard Robert shift in his seat, imagined his expression, pensive and intense. "Are you?"

"Yes, Robert." A tear fell, followed closely by a second.

"You'd tell me, if you weren't." Robert's voice was gentle and caring. "I don't want you to feel…neglected."

She had to hold the mouthpiece away so he would not hear her clear her throat. "I'm sure you're incapable of that."

From somewhere on his end there was a muffled thump, a second later Robert said, "I'm afraid I have to get off the line now, darling. Meetings and the bother. Give the girl's my love."

"I will. Try and have a good day, won't you?"

Cora waited for him to hang up before she set the pieces in their respective spots. She ran a hand over her face, clearing away the damp traces of emotion. _What is it the British say in situations like these?_ Keep calm and carry on. She'd do just that.

~o~O~o~

Anna finished fastening the long row of buttons running the length of Lady Mary's back.

"…It feels as if something's been stolen from us," Lady Sybil said, pacing slightly. "A sense of…security or some such…"

Lady Edith shook her head. "It's awful. Really dreadful."

"How is everything below stairs?" Lady Mary asked, speaking to Anna directly. "Did the headlines cause great commotion."

Anna straightened the hem of the gown. "Ship shape and in Bristol fashion."

Mary smoothed her hand over the back of her head, gave her reflection one last satisfied look. "I expected nothing less from Carson. Shall we go down?"

The sisters left the room and Anna went about straightening Lady Mary's vanity table, wondering if the oldest Crawley daughter was fighting fit again. She took a few articles of clothing to the laundry before heading out to the yard. There was still enough light.

A letter from Mr. Bates had just arrived that morning, and she had not had a moment to herself in the chaos of the day. Mrs. Hughes thought the best way to keep their minds off of the German attack was to keep their hands busy moving Christmas decorations out of their storage in the attic.

She headed, feet fast, intent on her destination, for the backdoor. To their little spot , to make the reading more tangible, to help strengthen the feel of him through the ink words on the pages.

"Anna."

She whirled around. The housekeeper stood at the opposite end of the hallway, frowning. "Where are you going?"

"I was just going outside. I fancied a breath of fresh air..."

Mrs. Hughes' eyes moved from her face to the letter clutched in her hand. "You'll catch a chill, and I'm afraid I cannot spare you should you fall ill when we are so short handed," she said, not all together unkind. "Maybe you should take Mr. Bates' letter up to your room. I'm sure it will be much more enjoyable if you're warm while reading it."

Her eyes coruscate with understanding. _She kno__ws,_ Anna realizes. _She is aware, of Mr. Bates and I, som__ehow._

"Mrs. Hughes, I..."

What could she say?

But the housekeeper only shook her head. "Hurry along now, Anna. You haven't got all day."

~o~O~o~

_I must be going soft in my old age,_ Elsie thought wistfully as she watched Anna disappear. Elsie could not recall a time when thoughts of a man made her act as Anna did; spreading herself too thin, working to keep thoughts at bay. But then, she could not remember a time in her life when she felt that young either. The almost inescapable cycle of poverty in her village as a child had seen to that.

No matter, now.

Mr. Molesley's voice drifted out from the servant's hall, he was talking to someone. As she rounded the corner and entered the room, Elsie realized his companion was Miss O'Brien, glaring daggers at him over her teacup.

"He's a lucky man, whoever he is."

"Who?" O'Brien asked.

"Anna's...Well, her boyfriend I suppose." Mr. Molesley's face colored slightly. "I hope wherever he is that he is well and safe."

O'Brien's jaw nearly unhinged itself. Elsie could see the vindictive wheels spinning in the woman's head, she opened her mouth to intervene but the ladies maid was one step ahead of her. "I wouldn't worry too much. He's only just in London. Bravely, ironing his Lordships trousers-"

"O'Brien!"

The woman jumped out of her skin.

"I'm sure you have something better to do then waste time with ideal title-tattle," Elsie ordered. "You aren't paid to sit here gossiping."

"I wasn't gossiping," the disgruntled ladies maid grumbled, "I was setting Mr. Molesley here straight."

_That woman is the limit!_ Elsie seethed while carefully maintaining a cool extra and taking charge of what had transformed itself into an incredibly embarrassing moment for poor Mr. Molesley. "I'll be the judge of that, and I say you were gossiping. I won't have gossip among my staff, not while I'm housekeeper."

~o~O~o~

O'Brien knew a dismissal when she heard one. She pushed her chair away from the table with a bang and stalked past the housekeeper. _What I wouldn't give to have the upper hand over Elsie Hughes just on__ce._

**tbc...**

* * *

**a/n: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews for the previous chapter.


	7. VII An Unofficial Christmas Truce I

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**VII. The Unofficial Christmas Truce (part I) **

_Christmas 1914_

Soon the weather turned from temperate cold to glacial; the autumn winds pummeled the countryside from all angles with a force that hinted at a long premature winter. A fine, crunchy frost slicked the ground one morning and by the next week a thick, powdery snow had fallen wrapping Downton Abbey in a white blanket.

It was just a fortnight until Christmas when Edith caught Sybil opening the door that led below stairs. "Just where exactly are you going?" she demanded.

Sybil spun around, hiding something behind her back; guilt tinting her checks pink.

_Guilty,_ Edith thought, _but of what?_

"I need Anna for something."

"Why don't you just ring for her? Like a proper lady."

Her little sister squared her shoulders, tilting her jaw upwards in a defiant stance. Her face held the same stubborn look as Mary; the resemblance between her older and youngest sister was suddenly striking and disquieting. "We used to spend a good deal of time below stairs -"

"As babies!"

"Hardly!" Sybil protested. "Besides, what is so wrong with 'below stairs'? You treat the place as if it's dirty, something foul that you've stepped in on the street."

"What you fail to understand about the world is that it functions because of the way society is built!" Edith exclaimed. "Every man and woman has a part to play and must be allowed to play it. You encouraged Gwen to step outside her rank -"

Sybil cut across her. "Gwen is happy, Mr. Bromwhich says she was born to be a secretary. The office could not run without her. I encouraged her to not give up on her dreams nothing so outlandish. And your argument is the same one father uses to placate his conscience."

"Sybil, dear," Edith said, her voice low and urgent, trying to impress upon her sister the serious repercussions of her liberal tenants "How do you expect to live in this world? How do you expect to make a good match? Granny, as old-fashioned as she is, is right. You have no opinion until you are married, and then your husband will tell you what your opinions are."

"Then maybe I shan't ever marry," Sybil replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, that will go over well with papa and mama!"

Sybil shook her head. "We'll see," she said before walking away, the look of disappointment in her eyes infuriating. Really, Sybil could be so very naïve in her thinking. There was nothing wrong with being genial with one's staff, but you couldn't be friends.

And you could not find a husband if you wanted the vote and an academic education, and what good was independence if you had to be lonely?

~o~O~o~

The Yuletide season shone with all the brightness and glister of the golden baubles twinkling from the branches of the Christmas tree. The whole household was almost dizzy, intoxicated on the merry spirit of the holiday and anticipating his Lordship's impending arrival, and the promise that for the duration of his leave, Downton would feel whole again.

The entire household, that is, save one.

"I never saw such a grand sight," Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson, her voice breathless, "Until my first year working at Downton. It's extraordinary."

They stood at the foot of the main staircase watching Molesley and Anna (with the help of an overeager and very cheerful Lady Sybil), decorate the mighty evergreen in the front hall. A smaller one had been placed in the library by the fireplace and in the Servant's Hall.

"So unlike anything I had ever seen before in my life."

He was not looking at her, was not even listening. Mr. Carson appeared to be staring into space, frowning, expression somewhat cross.

"Mr. Carson...Are you all right?"

He turned towards her. No, he was not all right. One look at his face told her that. But he lied to her all the same. "Perfectly, Mrs. Hughes."

"Really?" She pried, lowering her voice just incase the others could hear them. "You look as if something is bothering you."

He sighed. "I'm a bit tired."

"That, I have learned, is your answer for nearly everything when you don't want to talk. Or feel you cannot."

"Mr. Carson! Mrs. Hughes!" Lady Sybil cried gleefully. "Come and help us. It is such good fun!"

The senior servants shook their heads, amused, but did not budge from their posts. Lord Grantham arrived in two days, decorations of tinsel and holly still needed to be strung; rooms needed to be made up for the Grantham's guests. Her Ladyship had gone into Manchester to do some last minute shopping and would not be back until later that evening; she wished to go over the menu one last time when she did. Mrs. Patmore would have all the sugar her heart desired to make the Christmas pudding, they where for this week dispensing with the rationing. It had already cost them a pretty penny. Mrs. Hughes doubted his Lordship was prepared to pay an arm and a leg for his Christmas goose.

"You know you can confide in me?" Mrs. Hughes implored. "Don't you?"

"I do, Mrs. Hughes," the butler said, genuinely. His expression relaxed, his gaze almost becoming soft and tender. "But there isn't. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

~o~O~o~

Isobel sighed as she came to what was the last in a long row of portable hospital beds. "How are you feeling today, Peter Burns?" She asked the young captain, a child to her at the age of twenty-five. He was lucky, to have suffered the battlefield and come home alive, his body intact.

"No different, Nurse Crawley," Peter muttered, staring straight ahead into a dark corner of the ceiling.

"Can you look at me?"

No reply, of any kind. With sadness settling over her heart, Isobel moved to the small tray on the cart beside her and began measuring a small dosage of pills. "Here you are, Peter."

The captain took them without fuss and returned to staring straight up into the rafters.

"I'm leaving to spend Christmas with my family. Remember your mother said she was going to come and visit you on Boxing Day," Isobel said with forced cheeriness. "I'm sure her visit will make you feel much better."

"Have a Happy Christmas, ma'am."

"You too, Peter." Isobel stared at him for one moment, debating on whether or not she should go with such an ailing patient on her hands before tearing herself away. She returned the little medicine cart to it's spot by the door and walked down the corridor, forcing herself not to look or listen to the men laying in triage on stretchers in the front hall, doctors and nurses assessing their wounds.

Dr. Clarkson waited for her by the front door. He was perhaps the only person employed by the British Army Medical Corps who still could be considered bright-eyed. How he mustered such energy when his job involved moving from army hospital to army hospital in order to ensure everything was running as smooth and efficiently as possible, assisting on the most hopeless and difficult cases as he did so, was beyond Isobel. It was an effort; some days she had to remind herself to smile as she went from patient to patient trying to ease the pain of a phantom limb or dispensing rudimentary psychiatrics for shell shock.

"Good morning, Nurse Crawley," he said brightly. "The car's waiting for us. Lord Grantham sent it round."

"I'll just get my coat."

Dr. Clarkson helped her into it. "Here, I have that," he said as she made to pick up her small suitcase.

They stepped quickly from the front door, the London air bitterly cold as they climbed quickly into the motor. Lord Grantham put his newspaper down, smiling at them both. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Lord Grantham."

"Good morning, cousin Robert," Isobel said, then seeing his valet in the front seat, "Good morning, Mr. Bates."

The man turned around, an eager smile on his face and wished both newcomers well. Isobel settled back in her seat, trying to squash the bubble of nerves fidgeting inside of her. She had after Matthew left, in some sense, fled, as politely as possible. Of course cousin Violet had not approved (Isobel was prepared for that), but Cora had looked so stung and put out…And Mary was going to be there. Isobel had assigned some of her anger at Matthew for enlisting to Mary, something that might make the holiday exceedingly awkward now.

~o~O~o~

The train was much less crowded today than the last time John was a passenger. The third class ticket brought comfortable accommodations towards the end of the line; no one else seemed to be on board save a few lost looking souls. Their pinched expressions reminded him sharply of the one he seemed to be wearing every time he looked in the mirror. Missing Anna made him ugly with longing. His heart beat, nervously, excitedly whenever he received one of her letters, and whenever there wasn't one waiting for him in the post, John became almost mad with anticipation.

Working in London was a double-edged sword. He loved it, he loved it almost as much as he loved working at Downton – he only loved Downton more because Anna was there. For the first time in nearly a decade John Bates was useful, effecting change. Soldiers were pouring back into the city, crippled, armless, and legless, a limp suddenly passed for whole and hearty. He feels bad now for every time work kept his pen busy; he could have written more, he should not have gotten caught up, entangled and crapulous on his own self-importance.

And to top it all off, his attempts to find Vera had all fallen flat. John had exhausted almost every lead and avenue. Though, he reflected grimly, thinking of the visit he paid to a London solicitor, it was possible to dissolve the marriage without Vera's assent doing so seemed amoral. He didn't want to tell Anna. He could not imagine her being angry; she would share in his disappointment, of that he was certain. John thought of his Christmas present. _Was it too much? No._ She deserved something special, something beautiful, for having to wait but also because she was Anna.

~o~O~o~

Molesley watched Anna study her reflection in the mirror at the foot of the stairs, smoothing her skirt, carefully examining her reflection for blemishes (not that she had any).

_For another man._ Molesley shook his head derisively; he was the world's biggest fool_. But for Mr. Bates? The man is old enough to be her father! Surely, Miss O'Brien is mistaken. _

"Anna, what are you doing?"

Anna turned quickly from the mirror. "Nothing, Ethel."

Behind him Miss O'Brien snickered.

~o~O~o~

"Branson," Lord Grantham said, pleased to see the radical chauffer. "Good to see you."

"And you, M'lord."

They pulled out of the train station and drove through the town, a few people paused to wave at the passing car. Robert smiled and waved back.

He could see his family's coat of arms flapping in the winter breeze. He marked the distance from home by looking at the passing trees, familiar floral landmarks. The motor moved a little slower through the snow, too slow, not a moment too soon Downton appeared on the horizon.

_She looks good, _Robert thought taking in his home, and then his eyes settled on his wife. _She's beautiful. _She took his breath away. Robert barely waited for the motor to come to a stop, certainly not for Branson to open the door.

"Darling," he said, a smile breaking onto his face. Mirroring her own. Abandoning all sense of decorum, he rushed to her, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her soundly.

"Robert, oh, not in front of the servants." Cora gave him a mock-glare, the smile on her lips ruining the effect. "For heavens sake, dear."

"Isn't this how they do things in America?" He quipped before turning to his daughters. "Come, give your old papa a kiss."

Sybil threw her arms around his neck, laughing, reminding him of her youth. Edith followed, her eyes shinning, and then, at a much more sedate pace, Mary. He held his family close before turning to his staff. Carson wore a frozen expression.

"Carson, my dear fellow," Robert clapped the man on the shoulder.

"Welcome back, My Lord."

Behind him, Mr. Bates and Anna exchanged a look that held such deep emotion and longing the snow underneath them was likely to start melting. "Come now, lets all step inside, out of this blasted cold."

Cora took one of his arms, Sybil the other one; everyone seemed to be smiling happily. As he stepped through the door, Pharaoh came running down the steps, barking joyfully.

~o~O~o~

Anna loitered outside Lord Grantham's room. She would be in trouble if someone caught her; Mrs. Hughes, evidently knew of her and Mr. Bates affair, even if she was not going to stop them, she would not be best pleased to see Anna wasting time when there were chores to be done.

The handle turned, clicking and creaking as the door opened and Mr. Bates appeared. The scene took Anna back to the night war broke out, their first kiss; his Lordship's dirty laundry draped over his arm, gaze smoldering as their eyes met.

"Mr. Bates."

"Anna."

"Here let me take that for you," she gestured towards the bundle of laundry.

He smiled, protesting even as he shifted the laundry towards her outstretched arms, "I can manage."

"I never implied you couldn't," she said. His fingers brushed hers; Anna felt a jolt, like electricity traveling down a wire. They headed for the door, disguised as part of the wall. "How is London?"

"Feverish with war." Mr. Bates grimaced.

"How is your leg?"

"A bit sour – from the weather." He held the door open for her, smiling again. "Don't fuss woman."

Anna scoffed, trying to be stern. "I'll fuss if I like, John -"

His arms wrapped around her with a speed and strength so sudden it took Anna by surprised. His lips warm and slightly chapped; Anna threw her arms with reckless abandon around his neck, dropping the laundry to pull him closer, deepening the kiss.

"Why John Bates," Anna laughed, breathless. His arms held her securely to him, she rested her hands on his chest, pushing back slightly so she could gaze into his eyes.

"Dear Anna," his voice was rough and his eyes shone. "How I've missed you." His cane hit the floor with a light thump, echoing dully in the stairwell, as he tried to hold her closer. Anna leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder; he pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring tender endearments.

"Oh, John," she sighed, "I thought this moment would never come."

~o~O~o~

While the staff put the final preparations on the Christmas feast, Carson approached Lord Grantham in the library.

"My Lord," Carson said, tentatively as the matter at hand was calamitous.

Lord Grantham looked up from his book, happy to be back home in his rightful sphere and every inch the benevolent lord. "Yes, Carson? What can I do for you?"

"There is…a slight problem with the Christmas dinner service, My Lord," Carson informed him gravely.

"Oh."

"We may have," Carson was barely able to utter the words, it was unprecedented; never in all his time as butler had the house standards slipped – before now. "We may have to have a maid serve in the dining room."

"Oh." Lord Grantham turned back to his book. "Is that all?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, cheer up, Carson. That's not such a travesty, is it?"

Later, when Carson relayed the conversation to Mrs. Hughes she fought hard to repress a laugh. "Have Anna do it, she won't cause you any embarrassment," she advised.

"I suppose so," he said. He looked absolutely crestfallen as he went off to oversee the setting of the table.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head, utterly bemused by her friend's thwarted attempts to keep women from waiting a table. _You'd think the Germans might gain an advantage by the way he acts._

~o~O~o~

"I would like to start our Christmas dinner with a toast." Robert rose to his feet, raising his glass. Around the table everyone followed suit. "To my family – and our guest – you fill me with a sense of warmth that is greater and more powerful than I can say. And to those who cannot be here with us tonight, all across England. Salute."

The other's echoed, glasses clinking together, "Salute," the faces changing from cheerful to solemn.

"How do you find the army hospitals, Dr. Clarkson?" Sybil asked, cutting her roast beef daintily.

"I find them well equipped. Many places are the sight of new medical breakthroughs. Under the pressure doctors have to be more innovative. My son, however, is stationed at a field hospital in France and he says the conditions are deplorable." Dr. Clarkson looked at his host and hostess in turn. "I must thank you again for your generous invitation, with George overseas I was not looking forward to weathering the holiday alone."

"Nor should you have," Lady Grantham insisted. "We're happy to have you with us."

"I for one don't think our hospitals are equipped to handle emotional traumas as well as physical ones," Mrs. Crawley asserted. "I have this one patient, a Captain Burns, who while physically fine will not make eye contact and barley speaks a word."

"If he's physically fine then why is he in hospital?" Edith asked.

"Because he's mentally ill," Mrs. Crawley explained, then seeing the look of shock on Edith's face hurried to elaborate, "Not disturbed. He's just been through a very harrowing ordeal."

"The term our field doctors are using is shell shock," Dr. Clarkson informed the table at large.

Sybil shook her head, sadly. "It's dreadful. What those poor men must go through."

"Yes, well, I do not think it is appropriate dinner conversation," her grandmother asserted, looking disapprovingly at Mrs. Crawley. Her opponent glared right back at her. "However horrible it is."

An uneasy silence descended upon the table broken by Lady Grantham who was determined that her mother-in-law and Mrs. Crawley would not spoil the festive mood with their usual petty squabbles. "Robert, do you remember when the girls where babies? They used to put on those little Christmas concerts."

"Oh, mama," Mary groaned, embarrassed. Edith looked equally uncomfortable.

"You played the piano," Lady Grantham continued, ignoring her oldest children's dismay. The other diners were all smiling broadly now, eager to forget the war. "And Edith and Sybil would sing carols."

"I remember," Sybil gushed excitedly, "I Saw Three Ships and Deck the Halls. Over and over again until we mixed up the words."

"Perhaps you girls will entertain us with a small concert after dinner," Lord Grantham suggested.

Identical expressions of horror passed over Mary and Edith's face while Sybil exclaimed: "Oh, let's! Mary, Edith, it will be such good fun!"

~o~O~o~

Bates skimmed through the newspaper. The rest of the staff bustled around; his attempts to help had been waved off. Apparently, Anna's invasion into the dining room did not mean that a valet could help with the dinner service.

"It's good to have you back with us, Mr. Bates."

He looked up from the paper, smiling at the housekeeper. "It's nice to be back, Mrs. Hughes."

"You've been sourly missed. By Anna especially." There was a steely gleam in her eyes.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"You're a good man, Mr. Bates, but I don't approve of the way Anna's been running herself ragged to keep herself from thinking of you."

Mr. Bates opened his mouth to speak – Daisy skirted into the room, balancing several heavy plates at once.

"I best go give them a hand," Mrs. Hughes said, leaving the bewildered valet in her wake.

~o~O~o~

Late that night, Carson stood by the piano, walking his fingers lazily over the ivory keys.

"That needs to be tuned," Mrs. Hughes said.

He looked at her over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway, a tired but happy expression on her face. "Indeed. Have they all gone up?"

"Yes. We're the last." She moved into the room, standing at his side, gazing up at him. Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing and concerned. "I wish you'd tell me what's bothering you. I can help."

"Too much of Mrs. Patmore's fudge and I'm feeling a bit nostalgic," he confessed, "Thinking too fondly of the past."

Mrs. Hughes looked sadly down at the instrument. "Oh, aye, I miss the sound it use to make."

"William would play it on Christmas Eve," his throat tightened.

"There are so many memories in this room." She looked around her at the room. "Thomas strung up that stupid mistletoe his second year here, as a lark, and we got caught underneath it."

"Oh, yes," Carson frowned slightly irritated by the mention of the former footman's prank. "I did not even have to reprimand him-"

She scoffed. "You did a fine impression of it then."

"You were angry enough for the both of us." There was a smile in his voice.

"Oh, aye furious," Mrs. Hughes agreed. She blinked fiercely.

"I told William he would be back by Christmas," Mr. Carson's deep voice wavered, "Back home and back to work, my exact words." The guilt was piercing; he couldn't breathe, there as no air in the room. Mrs. Hughes looked at him, her eyes over bright. _She's the only person in this house who knows, who understands how I feel. _

"I'm sorry-"

Immediately, she shushed him. "Don't even think of apologizing. So this is why you've been so out of sorts of late? You feel guilty – needlessly, I might add."

He gave her a weary smile. "That'd be the size of it."

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "You're too hard on yourself sometimes."

"Perhaps," Mr. Carson agreed weekly. A weight felt as if it had been lifted from his chest. "Come, what's your pleasure?"

"What?" Mrs. Hughes laughed as he sat down at the piano.

"What song would you like to hear?" His fingers plucked a wavering Joy to the World from the instrument.

"Where did you learn to play the piano?" Mrs. Hughes demanded, incredulous at the butler's hidden talent.

Mr. Carson's smile was self-deprecating. "You forget I wasted my youth in music halls."

"God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen, then," she commanded, pulling a chair out from the table.

"As you wish."

~o~O~o~

"It's good to be home, isn't it Bates?" Robert asked his valet as he tied the sash of his robe.

Bates nodded, folding Robert's laundry into a small, neat pile. "It is, My Lord." A smile tugged at his mouth, and the valet's eyes held a certain spark that Robert had seen mirrored in his head housemaid's eyes. In such a time of war and turmoil, at least some happiness and love still existed.

"Is there anything else you need, My Lord?"

"No. Good night, Bates. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, My Lord."

Robert walked the short distance to his wife's chambers, feeling more relaxed and at ease then he had in ages. Outside the snow glittered in the starlight, he was filled with a deep sense of peace absent during his time in London. The job hung on him; several long months of unending problems and crises and he was beginning to resent it. It was the least he could do, when Matthew and other brave men like him where on the front line.

Shaking the tension from his shoulders, Robert opened his wife's bedroom door. Surprised by the luminous glow of several dozen candles. On the bed, his wife reclined on a small massif of pillows. Her legs, slim and shapely, moved upon the satin sheets as she turned towards him.

"Cora?" Robert said, utterly dumbfounded. "My God."

She wore a new nightgown, lacy, made of some gossamer transparent material that clung to her body as she rose from the bed. The lingerie left nothing to his imagination revealing almost every inch of her pale legs and most of her cleavage with its generous neckline.

"I thought I might give you you're Christmas present a little early, dear." A self-satisfied smile lit her face as his gaze ran over her. He was speechless; her eyes glowed in the candlelight, almost wickedly she laid her palms on his chest, pressing against him. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" Her fingers crept over his shoulder, tickling his bicep. Robert cupped her hips: underneath his hands the fabric felt silky.

"You are a vision. A goddess," he murmured before burying his face in the sweet smelling curve of her neck, teasing her skin with his lips.

Cora giggled, grabbing hold of the robe's sash, propelling them to the bed. They fell across it; Cora pulled him down on top of her, moaning as Robert's lips sought out the sensitive skin just below her right ear. "A devilish, vixen of a goddess."

"I've missed you, darling," she sighed, "So much," before pulling his face up to hers and kissing him soundly.

**tbc...**

* * *

Please review if you have the time! I'll try to get Part II of this chapter up really soon. It was either split it into two parts or have one mega long chapter.


	8. VII An Unofficial Christmas Truce II

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**VII. A Christmas Armistice (part II)**

_Christmas _

The morning air struck Anna in the face, a sharp, cold shock to her system waking her. The sun was just a faint red smudge on the moonless horizon, not nearly enough to illuminate the yard. Mr. Bates was only distinguishable from the wall behind him because he had brought a lamp with him when he stole from his bed.

"Merry Christmas, John," Anna said, giving him a swift peck on the lips. "Lord, it's freezing."

He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head on his shoulder. "Come here, I'll help you stay warm."

"You only want an excuse to touch me," Anna teased, fingers curling around his hand.

"I could say the same about you." His warm breath tickled her ear. "Would you like your present?"

Anna nodded. Last night they had conspired to meet here before the rest of the house woke to exchange their Christmas presents. "I wasn't sure what to get you. You're rather hard to buy for, Mr. Bates."

He chuckled, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a flat, rectangular box. Anna looked at it curiously. "Jewelry?"

"Don't say anything. Just open it."

She broke the wrapping paper and opened the lid. "Oh…Oh, John…" Inside was a small, golden locket in the shape of a heart. "It's -"

Mr. Bates hushed her. "Don't say it. It was my pleasure."

"Will you help me put it on?"

He took the locket from her, stroking the side of her neck as he closed the clasp. Anna held it up, admiring it in the dawn light. "I love it," she told him, pressing a kiss to his check."

"It comes with a promise," Mr. Bates said. His gaze was serious and heavy she could just make it out by the light of the lamp. "That the next piece of jewelry I buy you will be a wedding ring."

Anna's breath caught in her chest. "John, you don't have to. I know."

He shook his head. "I know I don't. Anna, I _want _to. This" - he touched the locket - "Is a promise to be engaged – soon." He smiled, shaking the somberness away. "All right, now me."

Anna blushed. "It's not much."

Mr. Bates removed the present from her lap. "I doubt that, Anna. Coming for you." As he opened the present, Anna watched his face; his eyes skimmed the title of the book a look of amazement taking over his face. "Gulliver's Travels. Anna, this is…"

"I know it's your favorite. And that you didn't have your own copy; you borrowed the one from the library."

He smiled as he opened the cover and the spine cracked. "Anna, this is exactly what I wanted." He kissed her. "Thank you, love."

"Happy Christmas, John," Anna said.

They settled against each other and watched the sun rise on Christmas morning.

~o~O~o~

Robert rolled over, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist, pulling her firmly to his chest. Sun broke through the gap in between the curtains; hearty, fat rays that attested to the lateness of the hour. Morning was aging and most of the world was awake, but for now his world remained sleepy and peaceful.

"Um…" Cora sighed, rolling over to face him. Robert kissed her bare shoulder as she stirred, eyes opening, mouth curving into a smile. "Good morning, Robert."

"Merry Christmas, Cora."

~o~O~o~

Unknown to Anna and Mr. Bates they where not the only pair of lovers sneaking around that morning. Sybil dragged herself from the warmth of her bed, cocooning her body in a blanket as she crept into the cold garage.

"It's freezing," she complained, pulling the blanket tighter about her.

Branson waited on the bench by the wall, a wrapped present besides him and a wide smile on his face. "Aye. If you come closer, love, I'll warm you up."

"You'd like that, I'm sure," Sybil teased allowing him to pull her down onto his lap.

"My actions are completely selfless; I'm only thinking of you."

She kissed him deeply, cupping his face in her hands. "Merry Christmas, Tom."

"Merry Christmas, Sybil."

~o~O~o~

Mrs. Crawley and Sybil stood near the church door after the Christmas morning service watching the parishioners greet each other, wishing one another well. The season brought warmth and hope to their faces.

"I should never have insisted Dr. Clarkson perform that procedure," Isobel told the younger woman. Mr. Drake and his family stood apart from the rest of the townspeople, his injury ostracizing them. "Look at poor Mr. Drake now."

"You couldn't have known," Sybil insisted, her mouth set into a stubborn line.

Isobel disagreed but said nothing; she did not want to argue with the younger woman. Hearing there was nothing she could have done, that she had not contributed at all to Mr. Drake's injury would only make her feel worse. "That's the trouble with medicine. We mean to help but sometimes we shouldn't meddle."

Sybil watched Mr. Drake and his family leave, struggling down the snowy lane. "I wonder if I could talk with you about nursing."

Isobel nodded, only the tiniest surprised by what the girl said next.

"I want to volunteer."

"It's hard work. Punishing, emotionally and physically. I don't want to discourage you -"

"I know."

"- I rather think you'd be quite good at it."

Sybil's expression changed from one in earnest to surprise. "You do?"

"Yes," Isobel said. "You're very passionate. Our patients need devoted nurses."

"So, you will help me?"

Isobel nodded.

Sybil jumped slightly, clapping her hands together in delight. "Mrs. Cralwey, you are wonderful! I won't disappoint you."

The motor pulled up to the gate; Branson got out and held open the door for an impatient looking Lady Violet.

"Have you spoken with your parents about your ambition to become a nurse?" Isobel asked as they cut a path through the yard.

"Well," Sybil's face fell slightly, "No. Not yet."

~o~O~o~

William bent over his notepad, squinting in the week sunlight. It was quiet for now, but soon the enemy across No Man's Land would stir and the fighting would start up again.

Even on Christmas.

_Never mind that now. Think of home, think of Daisy, think of Christmas, yes._ William closed his eyes, envisioning Downton, the Yuletide decorations, the towering evergreen in the grand foyer, ignoring the fat rat scuttling above his head. Trench rats were typically small but could grow to be as large as a lady's lap dog; they were peaceful neighbors for the most part – more amicable than the Germans – and sometimes they were dinner as well. Though, William's regiment had not needed to resort to that yet.

_Dear Daisy, _

_First off, Merry Christmas! I'm well and safe and so is Mr. Crawley. We're enjoying Christmas in our own way, of course, the celebrations are strikingly different from the ones I've passed at Downton but – _

"William!" Matthew appeared above him, his face split by a wide grin. The first smile William has seen Lord Grantham's heir crack in a month. "There's a truce – we're to go across and meet them in the middle."

"What? Meet…the Germans?" William asked, startled.

"Yes. Come on." Matthew urged.

William stashed his notepad in his pocket, wrapping the scarf – a Christmas present from Daisy, which she had sent a few weeks in advance – around his face before crawling from the hole and onto the French snow, blinking, shocked at the spectacle before him.

In the heart of No Man's Land Germans and Englishmen, identical awe on their faces, shook hands. A few adversaries were joking and laughing, someone had found a football and two teams had formed, using piles of barbed wire to mark the goal posts.

A group of younger Germans approached them, looking as skeptical as William felt.

One man held out his hand, pointing to himself with the other. "Joachim Schmidt," he said. "Frohe Weihnachten!"

"I'm William. William Mason," William slapped his chest, feeling absurd and elated by a strange and sudden quick spreading warmth, and then he realized it was joy, relief, two things he had not felt since he left Downton and such pillars as friendship and sense. Tears stung his eyes; he blinked furiously. "Merry Christmas, Joachim."

~o~O~o~

"Nursing?" Lord Grantham echoed.

Sybil nodded, looking from her father to her mother who sat across from her on the library coach slightly stunned by her announcement. "I know in the past, I haven't always made good decisions."

Her father made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. "Sybil, at the moment I reside in officer's quarters. While the lodgings are comfortable for me I doubt that you would be -"

"But that's the beauty of it. Mrs. Crawley has offered to let me live with her," Sybil exclaimed, hurriedly. "I could completely immerse myself in the job, and she would be present as a chaperone during work and after my shifts. Please," she beseeched, hands clasped together so tightly they were white at the knuckles.

"Are you certain this is really what you want?" Lady Grantham asked an eyebrow lifted dubiously. "It will be long hours. Strenuous work. Sybil, you will have to clean up blood and other…bodily fluids as well."

"Yes." Sybil was adamant. "This is what I want. I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life."

Lord and Lady Grantham exchanged a long look; slowly her father nodded. "There will be rules, and if you put a toe over the line, Sybil, you will come straight home."

Sybil beamed. "Of course. Oh, Thank you!" She threw her arms around her parents.

~o~O~o~

Isobel sat in the drawing room, perusing Matthew's most recent letter for the fourth time. With each letter he seemed…less like himself; the words contrived and in places even dark.

The door opened; Mary's face displayed her shock.

She doubted Mary expected to see anyone, much less her, the woman she determinedly avoided being alone with all week.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," Mary said quickly, "I was just looking for mama."

"I haven't seen her," Isobel said, folding Matthew's letter. Her next words – "I wonder if we could talk" – were barely formed on her tongue when Mary apologized, once more for intruding and fled.

Isobel felt horrible, still, for her anger towards Mary. Clearly her cousin was fearful of being alone with her, which pointed to one conclusion: that Mary _knew_ (or at least suspected) how she had blamed her. Mary also looked to be suffering insomnia, if Isobel was any judge. Matthew complained of the same aliment occasionally, and in the early days of his deployment she often suffered from restless nights.

Isobel sighed. She could not leave tomorrow without rectifying the situation; a more direct approach was called for.

~o~O~o~

John helped Anna into her coat; she smiled at him over his shoulder, resisting the urge to take her arm until they were out of sight of the house. Mrs. Hughes needed bread from the village bakery - the flour supply like so many things was often interrupted by the war – and Lord Grantham had given him the afternoon off.

They were quiet as they meandered down the lane, his departure weighing heavily on both of them, the pressing need to locate Vera heavy on his mind. There was one stone John had left unturned by his intense searching.

"I'm sorry I was late," Anna said needlessly, "I was helping Lady Sybil pack and I couldn't find her -"

John silenced her with a deep kiss, only breaking away when his lungs begged for oxygen. Anna lifted her hands to his face, her gloved fingers gentle on his skin. "I'll see you during the season. It's not so far away."

"I know. I know."

"John?"

He gathered her closer to him. "Just let me hold you, Anna. Just let me hold you."

She complied; arms circling around his waist as his wrapped around her shoulders.

"We'll be together soon," he vowed, "In every way that counts. I promise."

Anna lifted her head from his shoulder, eyes shinning with a measure of trust and love that thrilled and scared him. "I _know _we will."

~o~O~o~

Cora opened Sybil's bedroom door. Her daughter was sitting up in bed, reading a book. "Do you have everything packed for tomorrow?"

Sybil lowered her book. "I think so."

Lady Grantham sat on the side of Sybil's bed. "If you forget anything I can always send it to you."

"I should probably go to sleep," Sybil said, "We're leaving so early tomorrow, almost on the milk train."

Cora kissed her daughter's forehead. "Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, mama."

Sighing, Cora watched Sybil blow out her candle and settle on her pillows, pulling the duvet over her shoulders almost up to her chin. She marveled inwardly at how quickly her baby had grown into a woman – a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman at that.

Thinking along this line always brought sadder thoughts, of the baby son she would never know. She touched her flat stomach. It would almost be time; he would almost be ready to be born. Instead he resided with the angles.

Robert looked up from his book as she crawled into bed beside him, forcing a smile onto her face as she settled against his shoulder.

His arm wrapped around her. "Are you all right, Cora?"

"Oh, I'm a bit sad. You have to leave tomorrow."

His lips brushed the top of her head, at peace while her mind turned over dwelling on her children – all four of them.

~o~O~o~

Mary sat at her vanity, relaxing as the hairbrush moved through her hair, an oddly soothing nightly ritual. Somebody knocked on the door. "Come in," she bid, rather puzzled.

Mrs. Crawley, dressed in her night things, appeared a smile on her face. "I wondered if I might have a private word."

"It's very late." Mary said feeling slightly panicked as the older woman moved further into the room.

"It will only take a moment," Mrs. Crawley made herself at home on a nearby chair.

Mary glanced down at her hands, studying the cuticle of her thumb. "I don't know where to begin." She had avoided Mrs. Crawley as best she could, going out of her way to never be caught alone with her. She was certain Matthew's mother blamed her for his enlistment; Mary blamed herself for his enlistment. Stubborn fool that he is.

"I want to apologize, Mary."

Her head snapped up, that was the last thing she expected.

Anger.

Resentment.

Loathing.

Not an apology.

"I've been angry with you for Matthew joining up." Mrs. Crawley shook her head gravely. "That was very unfair of me. Can you forgive me?"

Slowly, her throat tight, Mary nodded. "I'm sorry too. If I hadn't – if I had just given him my answer sooner…"

The older women's gaze was gentle but her voice was stern. "Matthew would have enlisted regardless. He is very patriotic. Always has been."

Mary swallowed past the lump in her throat, chocking on her confession, "I have the worst nightmares about him…" Her voice failed her; it was too horrible to speak aloud.

"Nightmares and dreams are only figments of our subconscious trying to tell us something. Perhaps that you feel guilty?" Mrs. Crawely suggested shrewdly.

Mary nodded, yes that made perfect sense.

"Try not to think of it. If they persist, however, I want you to write to me so we can come up with another solution." Mrs. Cawely got to her feet, Mary stood to. "I'll see you in the morning, then?"

"Yes," Mary said feeling lighter then she had in ages as she watched the older woman cross to the door. "And Mrs. Crawely – thank you."

She smiled. "It was my pleasure, dear."

~o~O~o~

The peace of the unofficial Christmas truce was soon forgotten. It had lasted no more than a day, at the end of which, superiors on both sides were furious for the unsanctioned cease-fire. They had been fighting ever since, Matthew reflected; to make up for their momentary lapse of sanity. For most of the week the earth trembled as shells rained down on both sides with the snow.

He coughed on the smoke from his fag. He hadn't seen William in a few days, he's moved with another squad further down the line. Matthew wasn't going to let himself worry – yet.

But he was angry – all the time – with himself for enlisting, for jumping so foolishly into such madness. His mother was right, not that it mattered now. Surviving mattered, he put all his energy and anger into living each day.

His fingers reached towards his jacket pocket, involuntarily feeling the bulk of Mary's unopened letter. He was half frightened of what it might contain; more heartless quips about sea monsters and princesses. Mary's tongue was a vicious weapon why should her pen be any different?

**tbc...**


	9. VIII A Few New Beginnings

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**VIII. A Few New Beginnings **

_January 1915_

Sybil was not having a good day. No, she was having a very bad day, a bad day at the end of a miserable month.

Her venture into nursing began well enough. As planned she took up residence with Mrs. Crawley, unpacking her suitcases and making the small spare room at the back of the apartment her own. The flat was situated in the quiet, tidy underbelly of the city. A residential area, the block was full of families, their household remained one of the smallest as Mrs. Bird and Ellen also resided there. She knew Mrs. Crawley and the other women were watching her carefully the first few days for any oppugnant behavior.

They were as doubtful as Sybil's parents and sisters of her nursing career. Mary thought it was very middle class of her to desire some sort of occupation. Surprisingly, Edith had been more supportive.

"_I thought you would not approve," Sybil said, surprised by her older sister's reaction. _

"_Oh, I don't. I'd rather have you nursing than smashing property or chaining yourself to the rails." _

Tom remained the most supportive.

"…_You don't want me to go do you?" Sybil asked. _

_Branson held her hand; when she told him initially he was excited and unlike her kin optimistic. His face fell as their conversation progressed, and she described what she planned to do once in London. "No!" He exclaimed. "No, I want you to go, Sybil. I just…I'll miss you." _

"_We'll write," Sybil said with forced brightness. "All the time. Every day." _

"_You can't put you're smile in a letter, love" Branson's face fell slightly further, "Or your laugh, or your beautiful, beautiful eyes…" He traced her lips with his thumb, kissing her nose. "Maybe I can find a way to visit you." _

_Sybil leaned into him. "How?" _

"_I don't know. We'll think of something." _

Homesickness, Sybil only suffered small, rare boughts, was largely or her Irish radical.

The trouble started when cousin Isobel introduced her to the other staff as _Lady _Sybil Crawley. Suddenly no one wanted to speak to her, no one wanted to teach her, and she was stuck with the worse doctorial jobs.

Sybil wiped sweat from her brow before dumping another full bedpan into the small yard behind St. Thomas. She'd show them. They wouldn't run her off. Sooner or later, they'd have to include her.

A half an hour late, grungy and tired, she made her way to the nurse's lounge. Stomach growling – despite the fact she had spent the past quarter of an hour disposing of human waste – for Mrs. Bird's delicious sandwiches. She bit into one with relish.

"Is this seat taken?"

A haughty looking woman in her mid-forties pointed to the empty seat across from her. Sybil had not seen her before. Her eyes, beady and sharp, were behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and her blond hair was tucked under the same cap Sybil wore, albeit more sloppily executed.

"No. Please."

The woman sat, surveying her shrewdly over the top of her glasses. "You're the new girl. Crawely something or other."

Sybil held out her hand. "My name's Sybil. Pleased to make your acquaintance…"

"I'm Emmeline Shilton." Emmeline Shilton huffed as she opened her lunch pale. "Do you know what's wrong with the world, Sybil?"

"I find there are a great many things wrong with it," Sybil replied.

Emmeline rolled her eyes. "Well, yes, but _men_."

"Men," Sybil echoed, puzzled by the turn the conversation was taking.

"Boys, but the little monsters grow into men," Emmeline bit savagely into her own sandwich. "I've got two of them. Do you know what Albert did this morning?"

Sybil opened her mouth, unsure if Emmeline wanted an answer but the older woman cut her off.

"He stuck a marble up his nose because Jimmy dared him to. I swear," she shook her head, the very picture of maternal frustration, "I wish they were girls."

"I have two older sisters," Sybil said consolingly. "When Mary was seven and Edith was five she told her bats attacked girls with light colored hair. Edith was so frightened she tried to cut off all her hair with a pair of sewing scissors."

Emmeline stared at her, for a long moment – and burst out laughing. "My heavens, what did they do to you?"

~o~O~o~

_February 4, 1915_

Before long the world froze and melted: fall transformed to winter, the days darkened and shrunk. Every task was penal; every chore took an age to complete. Miss O'Brien stood in the door to the yard, a cigarette raised to her lips. The cobblestones, slick with weak February snow that glimmered in the light of the sun, reflecting painfully into her eyes.

Banter floated out from the Servant's Hall; Daisy was simpering over William's latest letter, Molesley was casting lovelorn looks at an oblivious Anna, probably batting his eyelashes like Daisy once had, stupidly hoping to catch Thomas' affections. The usual culprits, everyone worse than the other and none of them loud enough to keep her thoughts at bay.

They swirled like smoke, the last remains of a dreadful day.

This would have been the day maybe, the month certainly, that Lady Grantham gave birth to the heir everyone once desperately craved.

Her Ladyship did not move when she bought in her tea tray that morning; she lifted her head from the pillow and sighed, Thank you, O'Brien, but I don't think I will be getting up today."

The image of her, buried under the blankets, tear tracks staining her checks, would have been heartbreakingly pathetic if O'Brien had not reduced her to such a sorry state.

And for what?

A lousy misunderstanding…She was mean, who was she kidding she was a nasty piece of work…But she was not a killer…She had never been a murderer.

She inhaled and exhaled shakily; smoke whirling in the cold air. Lady Grantham should have been as big as a house and knitting teeny baby clothes.

Her eyes pricked (don't you dare cry, Sarah O'Brien).

~o~O~o~

Lord Grantham watched the steady parade of men in military dress, coming and going from the War Office, from his viewpoint they meshed into the perfect bustle of city life, mixing with civilians as they boarded street cars or walked down the pavement in the opposite direction of the hulking War Offices. It was a stone building, squat and ugly, seemingly crouched like a waiting predator between a church and a park.

Behind him his desk was in a state of utter chaos; per usual in spite of Mr. Bates' attempts to keep it neat and tidy the paperwork and problems eventually overtook them.

Robert shook his head at just how grievous England's situation was. In January, Germany declared "total war," and she was now under threat of Zeppelin bombings.

And today…

Germany announced a submarine blockage. Any ship approaching was a legitimate target, Navy, Military, or otherwise.

But his thoughts were distracted, trapped in between two quandaries, plighted by the growing international conflict and his wife's miscarriage.

_It could have been today, or the next._ The memory of his unborn son beset upon both him and Cora (he knew), gnawing at their souls.

The door handle clicked. Robert turned from the window; Mr. Bates entered the room, balancing several files of reports. "These just arrived – from the front and our spies abroad about the U-Boat crisis."

"Yes," Lord Grantham said, picking one up and flipping through the pages, "Thank you, Bates."

His valet's eyes narrowed. "Is everything all right, My Lord?"

"No, but there isn't much you or anyone else can do about it." Irritated, Robert shut the file with a snap.

Bates stared at him openly shocked.

"I'm sorry. That was rather offhanded."

"It's fine, My Lord."

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" He asked.

Robert grabbed his coat, pulling it on hastily. "No. I'm going for a walk. The ruddy heating makes the air stink of petrol."

~o~O~o~

Matthew unfolded Mary's letter with trembling fingers. His mother had written to him, scolding him for not reading it sooner.

…_You have been very rude to not reply to Mary by now, I know I instilled better manners in you than this. In any case, I think the letter will bring you peace…_

"What's that?" William asked, returning from patrol. He set his rifle on the ground, rubbing his shoulder – he'd dislocated it a few weeks earlier and it still pained him some.

"A letter."

The wind blew hard, ripping the pages violently from Matthew's grasp and scattering them all around the muddy ground. "Shit!" He cried running after them, trying to pick them up. William joined in the rescue attempt. By the time they gathered all the pages again they where saturated with mud and dirt, unreadable.

Swearing a blue streak, Matthew kicked a nearby wall and almost fell over. It felt like his foot was broken: his curses louder and growing in profanity.

"What was in the letter?" William asked, curios as to why he was so upset.

Matthew's breath came in unsteady gasps, his chest heaved, the cold air cut into his lungs. "The answer, it would appear, to all of my prayers."

~o~O~o~

Nate Kennedy, the proprietor of one of London's seediest alehouses, almost dropped the glass he was cleaning in surprise. In the doorway of his establishment stood a man he never thought he would see again – his brother-in-law, John Bates, Vera's good for nothing bastard of a husband.

Bates was heavier, more solid, his limp pronounced as he moved into the room, the click of his cane in sync with his footsteps.

"Well, well, well. Look what the wind blew in; garbage off the street."

The man surveyed him, his face stoic and expressionless in face of Nate's insults. "Hello, Nate."

"Fancy, seeing you here, John Bates." _Lets see if we can't wipe that smug look off your face._ Nate reached below the scrubbed wooden countertop, retrieving a bottle of whisky – fine Irish whisky. "Your poison of choice, no?"

"No. I'm through with alcohol."

"Really?"

"I have not touched a drop in years."

Emotion finally showed: pride. No surprise, there, John Bates always had been an exceptionally proud man. Proud of his ability to drink any challenger under the table, proud of his skill with his fists, and proud of the way beautiful women flocked to him, attracted by his gentle façade. Nate pours a small amount of Whisky into a glass tumbler and sets it before him. "Go ahead. It's on the house."

Bates stairs down at the glass, beads of perspiration appearing on his brow. He clutched the handle of his cane. "I'm looking for your sister."

"Vera? You should have the decency to say her name, you did ruin her life, after all."

That ruffles Bates, a bit, makes him grit his teeth. "Do you know where I can find her?"

"No. I don't." Which is a bold face lie. "But like I would tell you anyway if I did know. What do you want with Vera? Where you been, I know they haven't kept you locked up this whole time."

"I took a job," Bates says slowly, "Moved away from London."

"But now you want to find Vera."

"Yes. I want a divorce."

Nate chuckles and spreads his arms, palms wide and open as if there is nothing to hide, no bad blood between them. "Look, here. She disappeared, didn't she? I've told you that I don't know where she is and that's the God's honest truth of the matter.

"You've never been honest a day in your life."

"And you where never one to turn down a drink, never a big believer in sobriety, or fidelity, or honest work -"

Bates grabs him roughly by the collar and shakes him with enough force that Nate's head swings back and forth. If this was the old Bates, Nate might be a tad worried, a bit scared (if this was the old Bates he would be picking his teeth out of his lap). There is something different, not just the cane, something unexplainable. There is a calmness about Bates that was never present in the old days.

"But things change don't they?" Nate says. "Vera fell right off the face of the goddamn earth."

Bates releases the hold on his collar, pushing Nate away with a force that almost sends him sprawling to the floor. Bates heaves, panting, "If you see her -"

"I'll tell her you're looking for her. On the off chance she suddenly appears."

Nate watches Bates from the window, limping slowly down the street. Only once he has turned the corner does Nate run upstairs to get a pen and a bit of paper.

His sister just might find this interesting.

~o~O~o~

_March 1915_

Emmeline and Sybil stood in the doorway of the square reception room, Emmeline checking the chart in her hand.

"Martha Thompson."

A young woman stood from one of the numerous benches, clutching a baby in her arms. She handed the infant off to a young girl, no older than seven, who was holding the hand of a younger boy.

Sybil caught her breath: Martha Thompson's face was purple, her right eye swollen shut, a ragged scar marred her nose, it looked as if it had been broken twice.

Emmeline lead the way into an examination room. Though St. Thomas was now primarily a hospital for wounded soldiers, many families and civilians still came there for medical attention.

Emmeline pushed Martha's file into Sybil's hands then sat down in the corner to observe her conduct the examination. As a junior nurse still in training she was not allowed to do certain jobs without a mentor.

"I'm nurse Crawley," Sybil introduced herself as Martha sat on the edge of the examination table. "What is bothering you today?"

From her corner, Emmeline rolled her eyes as if that should be perfectly obvious.

"My eye," Martha explained, gesturing to her face. "I walked into a door – by accident – yesterday."

Sybil leaned in close, cupped her face with one hand, using the other to examine the bruised flesh. "It should heal well on it's own. I can supply you with a salve."

Martha looked meekly at her hands, clutched in her lap. "I would very much appreciate that, ma'am."

"It says in your file that in the past four years you've been treated for two sprained wrists and a broken rib," Emmeline read allowed.

Sybil, removing a small jar of balm from a nearby cabinet, frowned.

Martha blanched. "I'm careless, clumsy like. My husband says I don't pay attention to what I'm doing or where I'm going."

"You've recently had a baby," Emmeline continued, tapping the file, "Six months ago."

"Yes."

"And you are with child again?"

Martha nodded, distinctly puzzled. Sybil felt her confusion.

"Nurse Crawley, kindly give us a moment."

"What's going on?" Sybil demanded, more than a little irritated with Emmeline for commandeering her patient.

Her friend occupied the examination room for a good twenty minutes before she and Martha stepped outside.

"Men," Emmeline said, nostrils flaring, fists shaking with fury. "Society, it's backwards." She marched off to the supply closet, grabbing a case of bandages. She pushed the box into Sybil's arms and grabbed another one off the high shelves.

"If you're talking about the vote -"

"The vote won't save Martha from her own personal hell," Emmeline shouted. "Sybil, don't you see? Martha's husband blackened her eye, abusive son of a bitch -"

"Emmeline!" Sybil exclaimed, shocked by the other woman's language.

" – Our society gives women an unhappy lot as a consequence of our gender. Making it criminal to help women like Martha."

"Help them how?" Sybil was now thoroughly confused. Emmeline was given to rants and it became very hard to stop her once she began.

"Contraceptives," then seeing Sybil's blank face, "Birth control."

"I'm sorry," Sybil apologized for her ignorance, "I don't know what that is."

Emmeline rolled her eyes, "Naturally," and stalked past her barking at an orderly who was unfortunate enough to get in her way.

~o~O~o~

There was a great commotion in the kitchen. Daisy watched as Emma, a kitchen maid a year older than her, sobbed miserably into her apron.

Mrs. Patmore was trying to console the clearly inconsolable girl. "Nothing is certain in life, well one thing is, if we don't get the luncheon started on time they'll be hell to pay."

Mrs. Hughes entered the room, drawn by Emma's piercing wails. "What's going on in here? I can hear crying all the way at the opposite end of the corridor."

"It's Emma, Mrs. Hughes," Daisy exclaimed. "She got a letter from her mother telling her her brother's been killed in action. She hasn't been able to stop crying since."

"Maybe Emma should go and lie down," Mrs. Hughes began.

The tearful girl shook her head, vehemently. "I-I'm f-f-fine. Honest."

The housekeeper frowned. "I really think you ought to excuse her, Mrs. Patmore. Emma is too distraught to continue working."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Patmore said, "She said she's fine."

The two women stood face to face now, and each seemed to be trying to stare the other down. Anxiously, Daisy wrung her hands.

Mrs. Hughes took a breath. "Mrs. Patmore, I really must insist –"

"Emma is a kitchen maid," the cook snapped, "She is under my jurisdiction. I don't go around telling the house maids when they ought to lie down, do I?"

"I really think -"

"If stirring a pot of soup becomes too much for the girl, then I'll send her to bed." Daisy watched as Mrs. Patmore drew herself up to her full height; the move was less impressive than it might have been as Mrs. Hughes still looked down on her by at least a few inches. "I doubt you knew the girl's name when you walked in here."

~o~O~o~

Mrs. Crawley stopped at the nurses' station, pulling on her gloves. Sybil looked up from the report she was filling out. "I'm heading home for the night. You're sure you're fine taking the night shift?"

Sybil nodded.

"Very well, I'll see you in the morning. Remember the patient in bed five. Colonial Smith needs to be monitored very closely. And Dr. Wyatt is on call; he'll be around here somewhere. "

"Mrs. Crawley, may I ask you something?"

"Certinally, dear."

"What are contraceptives?"

Mrs. Crawley froze. "Who told you about contraceptives?"

"No one," Sybil quickly lied. "I just overheard someone mentioning it." She watched Mrs. Crawley relax, confused by her reaction. "What is it?"

"Contraceptives prevent pregnancy," Mrs. Crawely explained, voice lowered to an almost inaudible decimal.

"I didn't know one could do that."

"It's harder than it sounds. Doctors don't normally give them to women. Apparently, it's wrong to actively prevent life," her voice was hard, disapproving.

"But you disagree with them?" Sybil asked.

Mrs. Crawley looked over her shoulder, appearing somewhat nervous. "I think most of the benefits out weigh the risks. But all medicine is like this; potentially dangerous yet capable of curing illness and disease."

Thoughtfully, Sybil nodded.

"Well, good night, Sybil. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yes," she said, distracted by the sudden burst of forbidden knowledge, "Good night."

~o~O~o~

By dinnertime Mr. Carson knew of the confrontation. The two women had been clashing for months; Mrs. Patmore unhappy to have her shopping list so restricted and Mrs. Hughes refused to budge an inch.

Above and below stairs dinners where now almost silent affairs, one sideways glance told him more than the war pressed upon the housekeeper's mind tonight. In fact, she seemed impervious to the wars' effects, going about her daily routine, extra chores and all applying to them an extraordinary amount of vim and vigor.

She left the table early, declaring that she was not hungry and needed to sort out the linen rotation for the month of April, which began tomorrow.

Wearily, he made his way to her parlor after supper. Tonight when he knocked he received no answer, so he simply opened the door. Mrs. Hughes sat on the small couch; shoulders slumped, staring despondently into space. Carson had the distinct impression that she had been for some time.

She looked up – utterly defeated and miserable.

"I thought you needed to work on the linen rotation?"

"Oh, that's already been done. I just needed a reason to get out of there."

"Would you like me to go?"

"Heavens, no," she said hastily, gesturing to the seat besides her. "Please sit, though you should not need an invitation."

Carson chuckled. "You may have a point. I've probably made a nuisance of myself by now."

Besides him she tensed, visibly. The lines of her brow drawing together, lips thinning into a terse purse. "You haven't."

"Mrs. Hughes, is something troubling you?" Carson asked, knowing full well the answer to his question.

She sat up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders a little. "No, Mr. Carson. Nothing is troubling me."

"Because if something where, well, considering our circumstances I can understand why you might be overwrought."

"I am not overwrought!" She snapped, angrily, and then seemed to deflate before him, lifting a hand to shield her eyes, her shoulders slumping forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"I know, Elsie," he leaned over, dispensing with any formalities with the use of her Christian name and taking one of her hands in his. Squeezing it slightly to warm it as her hand felt terribly cold. She lifted her hand away from her face, staring at him as if noticing him in her parlor, on her couch for the first time. "Is it something more than your..."

"My face-off with Mrs. Patmore?"

"I was going to say confrontation, but yes, that."

Elsie shook her head, smiling sadly. "Normally, I would be angry with the way she addressed me in front of the staff but it was more her insinuation, Charles, that I did not care about Emma's loss because I could not quite remember her name."

Her voice had risen steadily higher as she spoke, becoming slightly misty-eyed. Carson had never seen her like this before, so heartbreakingly undone with...with what exactly?

_With life,_ he supposed. With the same things that wore him down.

"I'm sick with worry," she confessed suddenly. "It's all I do when I have a spare moment to think. Worry that Anna is working herself too hard. Worry about the rationing. Worry for the state of the house. Worry that William might..." Her voice broke, her face crumpling slightly under the weight of her fears.

"Elsie, I had no idea you felt this way," Carson said shocked. "I've been a terrible friend, all these nights spent infringing on your free time and I never realized."

She shook her head, firmly. "It isn't your fault. I do a rather good job of keeping things bottled up, I suppose."

"You shouldn't feel you have to," Carson replied. She arched an eyebrow. "At least not with me. I would offer to make us some tea," he added, hurrying to change the subject, "But as we are rationing I cannot. I do have some rather good brandy in my pantry..."

Elsie laughed. Her grin resembling something close to a Cheshire cat's. "Keep your brandy, Charles, I am fine now that I have completely unburdened myself to you."

He squeezed her hand again. "Where would we be if we did not occasionally lean on each other?"

~o~O~o~

_April ~ 1915 (Gallipoli) _

The medical tent is constructed sloppily against the fractures of a stone house. Underneath the tarp the air is dusty, heavy, hot, and foul.

"Shrapnel logged in the abdomen…broken ribs," Thomas looked up at the fresh-faced private standing by the stretcher. "That's the least of it. His lungs been punctured. Make him comfortable."

Thomas moves to the next stretcher. "What have we got?"

"Half and a bit of a shell lodged in the knee."

Bates flashed before his mind. "He'll walk with a limp if we can excavate the wound."

"He's lost a great deal of blood already sir."

"Bring me fresh bandages, antiseptic, and the saw," Thomas orders, to the unconscious soldier he says, "I wish I had a bit of brandy to give you – or something stronger. We're both in for a rough night."

**tbc...**


	10. IX London Attacked

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**IX. London Attacked**

_May 22, 1915_

By May of 1915, England endured a long string of unpleasant news. Mr. Molesley considered himself immune to the headlines and subheading of the morning paper, the fatalities and battles that jumped out at him in bold words, inescapable, as he went over the newspaper with a red hot iron.

In February, The Times revealed a blockade of Great Britain by German U-boats; any ship was subjected to open fire. Almost three months later, the submarines sunk the Lusitania killing one thousand and one hundred ninety six people, a hundred and twenty-eight of them Americans creating another international watershed. Woodrow Wilson was insisting that Germany cease to sink ships without warning – or else.

Molesley unfolded the paper, and picked up the iron, steam wafted up from the edges where metal met paper. He worked through the lightest articles before turning the iron to the front page: the most alarming words sprang from the newspaper. Molesley gasped at the headline, in bold above a bulletin that took up the whole front page. Shivers of fear clawed up and down his spine.

GERMANY ATTACKS LONDON: BOMBS FALL ON THE CAPITOL.

~o~O~o~

_Mrs. Crawley turned from the young man tucked carefully onto the stretcher. He was young (they were all young), far too young to be in the center of St. Thomas' triage, far too young to be a soldier. _

_A bandage was wrapped around his head, a dark red stain at the temple. His left arm was in a sling that looked to be made by someone in a hurry. The right arm was severed at the elbow. _

_She checked the name on his identity tag: Private James Trevette. _

"_Private Trevette," she touched his shoulder lightly. "Private Trevette, can you hear me?" _

_Private Trevette moaned, eyelids flickered open; his eyes were so piercingly blue that Isobel inhaled sharply reminded of Matthew's eyes. _

"_You're all right, Mr. Trevette. You are in St. Thomas Hospital in London." She said these words slowly and clearly as she peered into his eyes; the black pupils consumed the white sclera. "Are you in any pain?" _

_Suddenly, sirens shrieked from somewhere out in the city. Isobel rose to her feet, exchanging frightened looks with the other nurses and doctors. _

_The noise faded, replaced by the roar of artillery and the sound of planes flying overhead. Isobel could see the searchlights lancing the sky from the window. _

"_W-what's going on?" _

_Isobel spun around. Private Trevette, grimacing in pain, gazed up at her. Blue eyes wide and fearful. "That sounds like gun fire," he stammered._

"_Everything's fine," Isobel knelt down besides him, checking his pulse. "What year is it?" _

"_1915." _

"_Who is the Prime Minister?" _

"_Herbert Henry, the bastard – apologies, ma'am." _

_Isobel smiled wearily. "Good. Your memory seems fine. Are you in any pain?" _

_Private Trevette nodded. "My head…and my arms." _

_Isobel turned to the small metal tray beside her, divided into lines of pills and tonics. She reached for one small bottle, noticing the measuring spoon beside it rattling ominously, and so were the bottles and the tray. _

_The whole triage trembled violently, the windows shook. The people inside the ward, medical personnel and patients alike cried out in terrified surprise, and then as the window panes splintered and shattered their screams were joined by those outside on the street, along with the smell of fire, burning rubble, and smoke. _

~o~O~o~

_Across town Lord Grantham stood up from his desk, stretched, and put on his coat. It had been a long day and he was ready for a hot meal and bed. Mr. Bates entered, an official looking envelope in his hand. _

"_My Lord, this memo was just sent down from the man above." _

"_I'm beginning to doubt one actually exists," Robert said, ruefully. "What is it?" _

_Bates opened his mouth – outside sires began to rail and searchlights cut across the darkening sky. The office shook and a loud thundering echoed throughout the city, seeming to come up from the bowels of the sewers, echoing off the faded gray sky. _

"_What the devil is that?" Robert demanded. _

"_I don't know, My Lord." _

_They moved to the window: the whole street below was gone, a massive crater, a pile of smoking rubble and ash. The windows trembled, cracking. _

"_Bates, look out!" _

~o~O~o~

_Sybil was rubbing sleep from her eyes. She had worked the night shift (again) and was just waking up, eating a light meal of toast and tea before heading to St. Thomas. _

"_Thank you, Mrs. Bird," she said before turning to the paper before her. _

Dearest Tom…

_The teacup on the table clattered in its saucer; the table shook. Both Sybil and Mrs. Bird looked up in terror as an alarm wailed in the distance. She jumped to her feet, opening the kitchen window. _

"_Mrs. Bird, you won't believe your eyes!" _

~o~O~o~

"Mr. Carson."

The butler glanced up from the candlesticks, polishing cloth poised to strike a deadly blow to any tarnish at the silver body. Mr. Molesley, his face white and bloodless, stood in the doorway of his pantry, holding what appeared to be The Times in his hand.

"I think you had better have a look at this."

~o~O~o~

Mrs. Hughes stood in the middle of the library. "Needs a thorough going over," she muttered to herself as she inspected the mantle for dust. Ethel was appallingly lazy whenever she had a feather duster in her hands.

"Mrs. Hughes."

"Good morning, Mr. Carson."

The butler shut the library door. He was pale, she noticed as he moved closer, and he seemed to tremble slightly with – was that fear in his eyes?"

"Mr. Carson, are you all right?" she asked, extremely alarmed by his state of being. "You're as white as a sheet."

"I need to speak with you, now, it's a matter of extreme importance."

Even more alarmed now, she asked, "Whatever is the matter?"

Wordlessly, Mr. Carson held out the morning paper. Her insides went cold and her mouth dry as she took it. "Heavens," Elsie heard herself whisper. "Oh, my Lord." She was shaking too; her whole body trembling from head to foot at what felt like ice coursing through her veins.

"I did not believe it myself when Mr. Molesly first showed me," Mr. Carson said, his voice firm, though not unkind.

"What do we do?" she demanded. "Should we inform the staff? Does her Ladyship know?"

He shook his head. "She's still in bed. Miss O'Brien has not even taken up her tray yet."

"And," Elsie steeled herself to ask the question, scared of what the answer might be, "Has there been any word from Lord Grantham and Mr. Bates?"

Mr. Carson shook his head.

Elsie felt a little unsteady on her feet, perhaps sensing this, Mr. Carson reached out and touched her shoulder.

~o~O~o~

Anna sat down next to Mr. Molesley as Daisy put a fresh loaf of bread down before her. Steam wafted up from the crust. "Are you all right, Mr. Molseley?" His expression was stony, and despite the delicious, mouthwatering smell of the bread the skin around his mouth was tinged green as if he was going to be suddenly and violently sick. "You seem upset."

The footman nodded.

_How odd,_ Anna thought.

One by one, the rest of the staff trickled in. Every house servant with the exception of Downton's butler and housekeeper.

"I hope they don't expect us to wait all morning," O'Brien grumbled, "Soon those blasted bells will be a tolling."

Anna ignored the lady's maid who had never been the biggest aficionado of morning. In the seat beside her, Mr. Molesley stared miserably into his cup of tea, as if contemplating his ability to drown himself in it. A knot formed in the pit of Anna's stomach. "Mr. Molesley," she whispered, so Miss O'Brien couldn't overhear them, "Something's not right, isn't it?"

He tore his face from his cup. "Why do you say that, Anna?"

She opened her mouth, about to answer, but Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes entered the room at the exact same moment both countenances similar to Molesley's. Her heart began to beat frantically, the thump-thump of panic drumming through her breast as the knot in her stomach tightened.

Mr. Carson stood before his usual place at the head of the table, Mrs. Hughes by his side. "I have some bad news, I am afraid." He cleared his throat. "Yesterday evening a German Zeppelin staged an attack on London, that was in part successful. The papers are unclear on the exact number of people injured," he swallowed, "Or otherwise, the damage to the city had been extensive."

Anna felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, suddenly it was as if all the air had gone out of the world. And the light too. "Please, Mr. Carson, had there been any word from his Lordship?" She asked.

The lines marring the butler's face deepened. "None – as of yet."

Something was squeezing her heart, chocking her.

_Oh, John...If he...What if he..? _

The bell board began to toll.

"Anna," Mrs. Hughes said, "That's Lady Edith." Her gaze was gentle as she said this while her voice was firm. Anna knew better than to tarry or to cry; knew how important it was to pretend that she was just as shaken as everyone else rather than more so. That the possibility of him never…of never being able to talk with him, or laugh, or kiss…No! Anna pushed the thoughts firmly to the recesses of her mind; she would not think of it, not until she knew for certain.

~o~O~o~

Branson pulled up to the front door. Lady Violet did not even wait for him to help her descend, she threw open the motor door with such strength he was surprised it was not ripped from the car.

"Where are they, Carson?" She demanded of the butler.

"In the Drawing Room, My Lady."

The Dowager Countess marched inside. Mr. Carson followed her.

Alone now, Branson looked down at his trembling fingers. She would be okay. She had to be.

~o~O~o~

Cora sat on the chaise, numb, barely able to feel Mary's hand, which was clutching in her own.

It had been a few hours since Carson, unable to actually speak the words aloud, handed her that morning's addition of The Times.

Edith had cried, Mary sat as stiff and immobile as a statue, and their grandmother, for once, was speechless. They all waited, four sets of eyes glued to the timepiece on the mantle, ears pricked for the ringing of the telephone.

_Oh, Robert...If he...What if he…?_

The door opened. Molesley entered with a fresh tray of sweet tea, ashen faced. He placed it down on the table before them and began to pour the elixir her mother-in-law claimed would soothe their troubled nerves. Cora doubted enough sweet tea existed to soothe her nerves.

The possibility of never seeing her husband again, of not being able to hear his voice or kiss his lips or inhale the slightly salty masculine tang of his scent after making love, was more than nerve racking, it was life shattering! The fear in the room made the air heavy and hard to inhale, as a result Cora's breathing was labored, her throat closing. Her eyes burned.

"Thank you, Molesley. Carson, I think we are fine for the moment. If we need something we shall ring."

~o~O~o~

Carson knew he was older, but he never felt the full effects of his age – a respectable sixty years – until today. At long last he descended the stairs, his bones aching with the weight of not knowing, of the pain that his 'family' was experiencing as they waited patiently in the Drawing Room for word.

He was heading for his pantry, to sit and wait by the telephone.

"Mr. Carson!"

He turned. Anna, pretty face pinched in distress, stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Has there been any word?"

"No. No I'm afraid not."

Her face, if it was possible, fell further.

He sank down into his desk chair, thankful for the quiet, the solitude. Two brisk knocks sounded on the door; Mrs. Hughes did not wait for permission, she opened the door, closing it with her back as her hands were busy with a tray. "You missed luncheon and you hardly touched your breakfast, I supposed you might be hungry."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, but I don't have an appetite."

She clicked her tongue, disapprovingly. "Nonsense. You should eat something, keep your strength up…"

"I'm really not hungry," he snapped.

She blinked, taken aback, and set the tray down on his desk with a small thud, making him think of something that had not occurred to him for roughly a decade. "See here, Charles Carson, there isn't a thing either one of us can do to help. I am not suggesting you eat, I am ordering you to. You're no good to any of us if you collapse from lack of -"

The telephone rang – they both looked at each other - upstairs someone picked it up.

By the time they reached the foyer Lady Mary was on the device, tears of relief streaming down her face.

~o~O~o~

"Robert," Cora said into the mouthpiece, her family gathered around her, "Tell me you are all fine."

His voice crackled on the other end. "We're at Rosamund's, dearest. I'm fine. So is Sybil, dearest, she's at St. Thomas at the moment doing what she can. I would have called you sooner, but we've been unable to get to a telephone."

"What happened?" Mary demanded.

Cora relayed her eldest daughter's question.

"A German airship, as you know by now, dropped a few bombs on London last night. There has been a great deal of damage, that's why it took us so long to telephone you. Miraculously, only a few people are injured. Mr. Bates among them, I'm afraid."

Lady Violet inserted herself into the conversation, "What about Mrs. Crawely?"

"She's fine. She's here with us."

~o~O~o~

"You're terribly lucky," Mrs. Crawley told Mr. Bates as she held a cloth damp with some foul smelling medicine. "If the shard of glass had just been a little to the left it would have blinded you, properly. Now stop fidgeting."

John sat still and waited for her to finish tending to the cut on his face. In the hallway, Lord Grantham hung up the telephone.

"How are they?" Mrs. Crawley asked. "It must have been dreadful for them."

"Very shaken up," Lord Grantham said, crossing to the sideboard and pouring himself a generous amount of brandy.

"All done. Now you'll need to keep that covered lest it scar."

John stood up from the couch. "May I, be excused, My Lord? There's a telegram I need to send."

Their eyes locked; understanding passing like lightning between them.

~o~O~o~

"Anna, this came for you with the evening post."

"It's a telegram," Daisy observed as Mr. Carson handed Anna the envelope. Ethel tittered excitedly.

Anna walked from the kitchen and out into the yard, the night air refreshingly cool on her face. Her fingers trembled as she opened the seal even though she knew John was okay.

Safe. STOP. Don't worry for me. STOP. Love you. STOP.

Her knees shook and caved underneath her. She fell back onto the bench, burying her head in her hands, and finally wept.

~o~O~o~

"'Titanically, the war has extended to English soils,'" Elsie recited under her breath. She threw The Times down in disgust; it hit the side of the small end table and fell to the floor, papers bestrewn. Mrs. Hughes sank into her settee with an unrestrained groan, putting a hand over her tired eyes; a migraine pounded behind her eyelids, a throbbing fit to cleave her head in two.

She lay down, stretching out across the cushions, exhausted and saddened. The bindings of her corset dug into her sides, more irritating than painful, but too aggravating against her skin to allow Elsie to fall into a proper sleep.

She dozed.

Somewhere far away there was a rapping: the rest of the house had retired, to the best of her knowledge she was the only one still awake, restless.

The rapping faded; a door opened and closed, a pair of well-polished shoes shuffled over the floor, their owner clearing his throat. "I thought you might like a cup of tea."

Elsie opened one eye. Mr. Carson smiled over her, two cups of tea in hand. She sat up, smoothing her skirt down. "I would. Thank you." He handed her the cup; she gestured to the seat beside her. The piping beverage slid easily down her throat; comfortingly warm and strong. "You've added something to this."

"Just a thimble full of brandy. I think we both need it tonight."

She laughed but it came out all wrong, more like a choked sob. He drew back, alarmed. "I'm sorry," she apologized, dabbing at misty eyes with the rough heel of her palm. "Sorry."

The blood appeared to dissipate out of his face. "It's fine."

"I'm just -"

"Elsie" he reached forward and took the teacup from her hand, fearful she would spill it in her emotional outpouring. "It's fine," he said firmly, then Mr. Carson clasped her hand in his. Elsie's were extremely small compared with the butler's, whose palms and digits nearly mantle all of her own. "You're emotions are quite justified by what we have experienced today. My, god, one needs to be made of stone not to. When Mr. Molesley told me…" He shook his head, at a loss for words to describe the terrible frightfulness of that moment.

She gave his hand a small, commiserating squeeze. "Charles," Elsie said gently, "Does…Does it feel as if something's been taken?"

His brows drew closer together as he frowned slightly. "Taken?"

"Some sense of security, I suppose, an awareness of how…vulnerable we are."

Mr. Carson glanced down at their intertwined hands, resting between his knee and hers on the small couch. "Yes. I know what you mean," he considered looking forlorn. Very slowly, almost cautiously, he untangled his hand from hers.

"Oh, there's no need to look so fearful," Elsie teased, swallowing back the emotion of the day. "I'm not about to fall to pieces. Goodness knows I've been a mite sensitive of late."

"No! Not in the least," Mr. Carson assured her hastily, pushing her teacup back into her hands.

Elsie lifted an eyebrow, skeptically.

"Well, perhaps a little," Mr. Carson conceded, reddening. "I owe you an apology for my behavior earlier."

"What behavior?" she asked, confused.

"I was, that is too say," he stammered, "Spoke rather sharply to you earlier."

Her face softened. "Of course you didn't."

"I'm sorry for loosing my temper with you when you were trying to help me."

"Don't be silly," Elsie protested weekly, disheartened seeing him so low and contrite. "I was a bit…despotic with you. And I chastened you as if you were a child and not a grown man, that must have been exasperating."

They sat in an amiable silence for a moment, sipping the brandy infused tea – the alcohol growing more potent as they reached the bottoms of their cups.

"You meant well."

"Oh, aye but meaning well and doing well are two different things all together." She glared sternly at him over the rim of her cup. "You have eaten _something_ today, Charles?"

Mr. Carson smiled wearily. "Yes, mother."

She tisked. "Such cheek."

"Don't take offense," he warned her "I actually felt as if I was being scolded by my mother – or my grandmother."

"Oh, dear…"

"Thank you for the luncheon, for all your mothering," he told her sincerely.

Elsie, sensing another bought of loss emotion, retrieved the newspaper from where she had left it in a heap on the floor. "Have you read this rubbish? 'Personal attack by Germany on Britannia's children…Titanically, the war has extended to English soils' - A poor choose of words, I might add – 'the war has come home.' What utter nonsense," Elsie said, scathingly.

Mr. Carson's face shifted, becoming grim. "I thought it already had."

Elsie threw the newspaper back to the floor, angrily. "We've not been so affected."

"What do you mean?" Mr. Carson demanded, incredulous. "We've got one footmen, Lord Grantham is living and_ working_ in London, Mr. Crawley and William…" His deep voice faded, Mr. Crawley and William's fate too grave to mention.

"Yes, but, Charles," she reasoned, "We haven't lost anyone. No one's died."

He looked at her, gaze level, the unspoken words – not yet – passing between them. "I suppose you're right," Mr. Carson finally said, sounding very tired indeed. "Per usual."

She sunk further into the couch, headache somewhat soothed now from the tea and brandy. "Naturally."

They fell into an easy silence; Mr. Carson making no move to leave and fetch the lodgers or his reading book and Elsie's knitting needles and yarn sat forgotten in their basket. The evening routine abandoned, abnormality of the night matching the abnormality of that day.

"You're nephew has still not enlisted?" He asked after a while.

"No. Catherine won't let him," Elsie said, "Nor will Alice, Will's wife. He'll stay to help run the family business and raise his children. Or my sister threatens to have him committed."

"He's not insane?" Mr. Carson asked, surprised.

"Certainly not. Will is as sane as you or I am. If wanting to fight a war can be considered sane," she added darkly. "In that case, I am probably more sane than you are."

Her friend scoffed. "I have not enlisted, nor do I plan to. Besides, I doubt they'd take me. I'm much too old," he added, sounding rather frustrated by that truth, one she herself was extremely grateful for.

"You would, though?"

"Perhaps, if I was a younger man. It is the patriotic thing to do."

"Patriotic, these days, passes for mindlessness." Elsie's voice was cold to her own ears and the temperature in the parlor felt as if it had dropped a few degrees, shivering she crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her upper arms lightly. The tea in her cup was now depleted.

"Here." Tenderly, Mr. Carson took the rug folded over the length of the settee back and lay it across her lap, reminding Elsie just why the thought of him going away to war was so disconcerting – and a notion that she had not thought of in many, many years.

To keep herself from dwelling on it now, she pushed her hands under the afghan.

"Better?" He asked.

"Yes. Thank you, Charles." She apologized for being cross; he waved the apology away, squeezing her shoulder lightly just as he had earlier in the library before moving away and gathering the dishes.

"You should get some sleep," he said, gently. "You look tired."

Elsie nodded, too exhausted to argue. She stood and draped the rug back over the couch, stooping to gather the newspaper and toss the offensive literature into the bin. They extinguished the lights in her office, the kitchen, and the Servant's Hall.

"Thank you, Charles, for the tea…and comfort," Elsie said at the foot of the stairs, lowering her voice in case the Hall Boy sleeping in the corner was not sleeping at all and could hear them.

By the dim glow of his lamp she could just make out his warm, large smile. "Thank you for the luncheon – and for taking care of me."

Feeling suddenly empty and oddly full, as if her heart was ready to overflow with some perplexing sentiment, she mounted the stairs leading to the women's half of the servants' quarters and inevitably her cold bed. "Good night, Charles."

"Good night, Elsie."

**tbc…**

* * *

**a/n: **The attack on May 22, 1915 by the Germans were the first of its kind. The incident is fascinating. London was ill prepared for this kind of attack, the first of its kind on an unarmed Civilian population Only about a dozen or so people died but the cost of repairing the damage was enormous (in the area of a couple dozen thousand pounds, which in those days was a lot of money). If anyone is interested in learning more, I have posted the link to the article I used in my profile.


	11. X A Jolly Good Start to The Season

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**X. A Jolly Good Start to The Season **

_June 2 – June 15, 1915 _

"Good mornin,' Nurse Sybil."

Sybil smiled at the soldier, propped up and grinning heartily against the pillows, as she passed his bed, clipboard clutched to her side, purpose in her steps. "Good morning, Jake."

Caption Jake Marshal clasped his right hand over his heart, expression suddenly pining and lovelorn. "Permit me to say that you are looking exceptionally beautiful this fine summer morn. Venus herself must be green with envy."

In assent, the soldier in the bed next to him wolf whistled.

Sybil felt her face flush though the interaction was not at all unexpected. Jake Marshal only ever flirted with the nurses when he was in a particularly dark mood. "Manners boys," she rebuked. They laughed at her light tone before returning to similar states of desolation.

She stopped at the last bed in the row; four children, all boys between the ages of twelve and six, ran in circles around it, each as blond and blue eyed as their father. The Smith's only daughter, a baby just shy of her second birthday, was cradled protectively at her mother's bosom. "How are you feeling today, Colonial Smith?"

Colonial Smith, square jawed, weather beaten, and plain spoken opened his mouth to answer her only to have his reply cut off by his wife, Mildred. "Oh, he's fine. Fit as a fiddle. Oh!" she gasped in surprise as one of her children bumped into her, causing Mildred to knock into the bed behind her, the sleeping soldier laying in it to wake, cursing, and the baby nestled in Mildred's arms to wake and begin fussing herself.

"Boys! Knock that off 'efore I knock you! 'Er, give 'er to me," Colonial Smith took the squirming toddler.

Sybil gave him a minute to calm the baby down before asking the first of a long list of standard (tedious) examination questions.

Is there any pain?

No.

Any phantom sensation on your right side?

No.

For each one, Mildred tried to answer the question for her husband. Finally, with an air of mock irritation, Colonial Smith shook his head and heaved: "Woman, I can answer for me-self. I'm legless, not mute."

His wife rolled her eyes.

Poor Colonial Smith has been in the hospital for months. He arrived late in March, fresh from the battlefields with a leg injury. Over the course of six weeks, Dr. Clarkson and Dr. Wyatt applied various new techniques (some of them just out of the fledgling stage of medical experimentation) to save the leg. Alas, the limb became infected and an amputation was required. Cousin Isobel assisted; Sybil would never forget the look on her face when she emerged from the operation room to tell Mildred that her husband had came through his surgery – but the next few days were critical.

Sybil remembered how the waiting room had felt smaller than the supply cupboard, the air festering as the fear rolled off of Mildred in constant waves, her patient's wife clutching her hand not asking why Sybil – the nurse assigned to his case – was out in the waiting room with his family rather than working at the operation table to save his life. Sybil was not experienced enough to perform amputations or to do much more than hold surgical instruments during surgery. She has become accomplished at stitching lacerations and mending broken bones; a beastly task that required copious amounts of strength, mental and physical.

"Not that you aren't lovely, lass," Colonial Smith said.

Immediately his wife slapped his arm. "Oh, Francis, really."

"But I'm ready to get out of here. To go home."

Sybil beamed. One of the children bumped into her side causing their mother to groan and grab them by the shoulder. "I have good news on that score. You're ready to be discharged. Tomorrow."

A fresh batch of soldiers was arriving in a few days; they needed his bed.

Colonial Smith and Mildred shared a long loving look; Smith kissed his wife's hand.

Sybil left them to enjoy their happy news – she'd given them precious little to celebrate in the last two months – making sure to sneak a piece of candy to each of the boys (she had taken to carrying sweets in her pockets, butterscotch lollies for children, chocolate brought with her allowance for the soldiers). She finished the last of her morning rounds and made her way to the nurses' lounge.

Emmeline was there, the newspaper spread eagle before her, it's pages disorganized and sloppily folded one over the other. She smiled when she saw Sybil. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Sybil busied herself with the kettle, the smaller one used to make coffee instead of the black tea preferred by most of the medical staff. "How are Albert and Jimmy?"

The mother shook her head. "Don't get me started. Those two…" She buried herself further into the article she was reading.

The door opened; Lucy O'Reilly, slightly plump and soft-spoken, her mousy hair contrasting dramatically with the dusky shade of her blue eyes, entered. At seventeen she was a more experienced nurse despite being two years Sybil's junior. She had just returned from the battlefields in Belgium, the crows' feet at the corners of her eyes and the parenthetical lines framing her mouth were testimony to her work.

"What two? Are we talking about Albert and Jimmy?"

"Yes. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?" Sybil asked.

"You know me, Sybil, coffee. Black as night. Oh…_That's_ better." Lucy sank into the davenport with an unrestrained sigh. The nurses' lounge included two such sofas and several comfortable chairs clustered around a large window in addition to the table and stove within the confines of the square room. "I've been awake since three."

"I didn't think you were working last night?" Sybil said taking two cups from the cabinet above the stove.

Lucy yawned. "I wasn't. That dog – the one I told you about last week – was barking. All nightlong. And on top of that the couple that moved in across the hall from my flat have an infant. It'll be months until it sleeps through the night."

"That's a shame, Nurse O'Reilly."

All three women looked up as Dr. Franklin Wyatt strode into the room and sat down in one of the chairs.

"This is the nurses' lounge, Frank," Emmeline said, "Get out."

Dr. Wyatt (who insisted he be known by his Christian name or the shortened version of it) was very young and extremely handsome. He was almost as good looking as her Tom; hazel-green eyes sparkling underneath long lashes, tall with broad shoulders, hair a beautiful shade of rich auburn, thick and wavy.

He paid Emmeline no mind. "I could smell Nurse Sybil's infamous coffee all the way on floor three." He leant forward, catching her in the smoldering gaze that drove every young, unmarried nurse to distraction. "Sybil brews the best coffee."

"One of her many lesser known, and until recently, wasted talents," Emmeline quipped. "I only meant, that if she'd stayed cooped up in the country, we'd be poorer for it. Don't look cross with me, Lucy. It was a bleeding compliment."

Lucy was frowning. "It was still very rude, Emmeline. Can't you be more…?"

"More what?"

"Well, less brash."

"I concur with Nurse O'Reilly. You're bedside manner -"

"What about my bedside manner, Frank? Remember, I've been a nurse since you've been in nappies."

Sybil ignored her friends' squabbling, busying herself with taking cups down from the cupboard and fixing three cups of coffee.

"Ahh," Lucy took a long, slow sip, her mien one of absolute rapture. "This is prefect, Sybil. Divine."

"I don't understand how you can stand it so strong." Sybil added three lumps of sugar to her own cup.

"We didn't have anything to put in it out…" Lucy's voice trailed off, pupils dilating dark, swallowing up the blue. Abruptly, she shook herself. "Anyway, I can't stand it any other way." She stood, albeit shakily. "Excuse me. I've just remembered…Have to cheek on a patient." Head bowed, she fled from the room.

Dr. Wyatt grabbed Sybil's wrist as she moved to go after her. "Leave her be," he advised.

"But she needs -"

Emmeline lowered her newspaper again. "Sybil, I've tried. Lucy won't talk about it. At least not for now."

"Come, sit," Dr. Wyatt urged, "Tell me, what are your plans for Friday night?"

Emmeline snorted. "Good luck. Sybil's got to do the season."

Sybil blushed. Dr. Wyatt frowned, turning his piercing gaze on her. "The season?"

"Her family is coming to London to do the season. Sybil doesn't want to participate in the well-heeled festivities, not really, she thinks it's trivial but she's too polite to say so."

"Emmeline, please!" She cried, positive she was now beet red to the roots of her hair. "You exaggerate." She rose, breaking Dr. Wyatt's hold on her wrist. "If you excuse me, I am a nurse and I have patients to tend to."

Sybil walked quickly from the room, knowing she left one perplexed doctor, would be suitor, and a nurse laughing at his expense. It did not take her long to locate Lucy. The younger girl stood on the front steeps, leaning slightly into the building. The tear tracks on her face were fresh, if dry, she lifted her head, tried composure broken, countenance morose.

Sybil wrapped her arms around her shoulders, drawing her in. "I can't imagine what you've seen, what you have been through."

"It would not be so awful if I could just sleep through the night. The nightmares…" Lucy's voice broke. "If I could just make them stop…"

"We'll find a way," Sybil promised. "There must be some remedy."

Lucy pulled back, wiping her palms across her cheeks. "There must be an end to this war. If we could show them all – what it's like to smell death, to breathe it…"

"We will." Sybil grasped her friend gently by the shoulders. "We will find a way to make them see – make the whole world see. First, you need to sleep."

"Hopeless," Lucy murmured as she led her back through the doors.

"I'll go and evict Emmeline and Dr. Wyatt. You can have a nice kip on the davenport."

"You'll wake me if I start to…?"

"I will."

Lucy patted Sybil's hand. "You are a good friend, Sybil. I wish I was half as optimistic as you are." Her weary eyes focused, becoming serious. "This…This job…What we do changes us. Be careful not to let it."

~o~O~o~

While Sybil worried about her new friend, Mr. Carson fussed over Mrs. Hughes.

"You're sure you will be fine by yourself?" He asked - for the third time that morning, the housekeeper reflected wearily.

She tried not to show her amusement. "Yes, Charles. I will be fine. Besides, I'm scarcely on my own."

He coincided with a slight nod of his head, pulling on his summer coat. That last was true: Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Ethel, and a whole host of other staff members normally not needed for the season, would be staying at Downton for the duration.

"I still don't like the idea of leaving you alone with only the hall boys for protection."

"Charles," Elsie exclaimed half incredulous, half flattered and surprisingly pleased by his concern. "We're not babies, defenseless without our mother's presence. And besides that, Mr. Branson will be here."

"All the way in the chauffer's cottage," Mr. Carson countered with a cryptic expression as if he doubted a socialist was proper protection for a houseful of women and adolescent boys.

"Has an intruder ever disturbed us?" She asked.

He opened than closed his mouth, resolved.

"Do try not to worry," Elsie instructed kindly.

"Only if you swear you won't worry too much about me –us. I doubt the Germans would try anything so unscrupulous again so soon."

After bidding Charles goodbye, Elsie tried to keep her promise. It was unfair, him forcing her to make a promise they both knew she could not keep. In the two weeks following the attack on London, she had worried. Added to the normal stress of preparing the Crawley family for the temporary move to London and seeing them off, was the eldritch memory of the recent Zeppelin bombing and the debate between Lord and Lady Grantham it gave rise to.

His Lordship, convinced by the ease of which the attack was perpetrated, dubbed London an unsafe place for his family to be. Even for something as important as the season.

There had been some debate, some argument (Lord Grantham wanted to return Lady Sybil to Downton), and packing was stalled twice before the Dowager Countess put an end to the dissension by declaring that not going was precisely what the Germans wanted.

So, Lord Grantham was persuaded, and the staff rushed to finish packing the dozen or so trunks with provisions for the social crusade.

Below stairs, the attack was still very fresh in everyone's minds; Daisy and Ethel were unable – in the latter's case unwilling - to let the subject drop. She was an unmanageable mess at the best of times.

_Then again, hardly a fortnight has passed. And who can say it won't happen again if it's happened once already_?

If she was a bit more worried for Mr. Carson than anyone else, she thought nothing of it. If the notion cropped up it was pushed firmly to the margins of her mind. It wouldn't do anyone any good, least of all her, to entertain _those _ideas again.

~o~O~o~

"Aren't you a sight for these sore, old eyes."

Anna spun around, dropping the pair of bloomers she was retrieving from Lady Edith's suitcase. "John!"

He stood in the doorway – whole and blessedly alive. The destruction caused by the German attack was still evident; piles of rubble had still not been cleared away and a few buildings along the Thames were obliterated.

He reached behind him and shut the door.

She fell into his arms, the tension that had built since their parting at Christmas easing as their bodies fit together.

"You look lovely," he breathed against her neck.

"What?" Anna asked. "I'm wearing my uniform. Boring…Black…What?" She pleaded, catching the twinkle in his eyes.

"Spin around for me love."

"John!" Anna wiggled against him as his hands dug into her sides, pressing at her rib cage, tickling lightly. "Stop!" she begged, breathless. "I can't breathe!"

He relented his assault, cupping her ribs in his hands. She brushed her fingers through his hair, frowning as she examined the stitch marks crossing his brow and trailing over the temple.

"It looks worse than it is."

"It looks painful."

"Mrs. Cralwey's done a fine job of it so it shouldn't scar."

"That isn't what I'm worried about." She swallowed. "I saw the damage, the destruction. John, that day I thought…I couldn't if you had -"

He kissed her, firmly. "But I didn't. And I'm fine. Barely anyone was hurt, only a few people actually died; it was a completely failed attempt on Germany's part."

"What about the next time?" Anna demanded.

"I don't have the answers, Anna," he lifted his hand to her face, thumb smoothing over her cheek. "But if I thought that my being here put me into harms way...I would leave."

"For me?"

"Yes. I won't risk our future." He leaned forward and kissed her brow.

Anna sighed, pressing her nose against his collar, inhaling the warm, familiar scent, and allowing herself to be comforted.

"Do you want help unpacking?" Mr. Bates whispered.

"No." Anna laughed. "Somehow, I don't think Lady Edith wants you to see her bloomers.

~o~O~o~

As Mr. Bates embraced his beloved, a woman made her way up Downton's long, winding drive. Her movements were resolved; footsteps steady as she put one foot determinedly before the other.

The score had to be settled.

Gemma Kennedy was unofficially there to answer an advertisement for a housemaid position. Unlike Ethel, she knew to ring the bell at the service entrance. A woman fast approaching elderly years opened the door. She studied Gemma through narrowed eyes; the lines around her face appeared to have formed over years of looking stern.

"Yes? Can I help you?" She asked politely.

"Yes. My name is Gemma Kennedy. The Manchester Employment Agency sent me – about an open housemaid position."

The woman held out her hand, smiling amiably with the genuine goodwill Gemma had come to expect from people living in such places, out of the way shires. The keys tied to her belt jingled. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. I was pleased to receive your note."

Mrs. Hughes stepped aside, allowing Gemma to step over the threshold and into the house.

~o~O~o~

Cora sighed, burying her face in the crook of Robert's neck, swiping a hand down his chest, damp with perspiration. "I missed this."

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, stroking the arm flung limply over his chest. "I missed this too."

She pressed her face closer to his skin, breathing in the delicious masculinity of his scent, slightly musky and exciting.

"Cora? Are you…sniffing me?"

"Oh, Robert! What a thing to say." She hoped he would mistake the flush on her cheeks for post-coitus glow.

"I'm sorry, dear. It seemed as if you were." Robert kissed the top of her head. Her hair fluttered as he inhaled and exhaled. "You smell lovely. Divine. Vinous." His finger curled in her tresses. "I missed this."

Mischievously, she pressed her body closer, leg winding up over his waist. "And this?" She whispered.

He groaned. "Cora…"

She kissed him, beguiling.

Robert's hands wondered over her back. Grasping her hips, he flipped her under him in one fluid movement, his momentum sending them sideways over the edge of their bed. Cora grabbed for something – there was a loud ripping nose - and half of the curtain from the four-poster was clutched in her hand.

"Oof!"

Cora's elbow nearly pierced Robert's side.

"Ouch!" Her eyes watered, her nose felt as if it was on fire. She lifted a hand tentatively to touch it…her fingers came away sticky.

Robert rolled off of her, face pinched in concern. "Cora, you're bleeding." He jumped up, pulling the sheet around his waist as he searched for something to stop the blood flow. "Blast it!"

"Robert, it feels…my nose feels as if you've broken it," she sobbed.

"I broke it?" He cried, laying hands on a towel in the bathroom. He pressed it gently to his wife's nose; she winced and tried to move away from his hand. "Cora, let me see it?"

"No, Robert."

"I have to see if it's really broken or just bloody."

"Just bloody?" Incredulous, she lifted the towel away from her face. "Just bloody, Robert. Oh!"

"Cora, your nose is broken," he told her grimly. "At least I think it is."

"Can you fix it?" She demanded.

"No. We need to get you to a doctor. Otherwise the break won't set straight." He was putting on his pajamas and picking up hers.

"I can't have a crocked nose, Robert," Cora whimpered, gingerly pulling her nightgown over her head. "Can you even get a doctor at this hour?"

Robert stopped, open-mouthed, thinking. "There's always -"

Cora shook her head. The movement caused her nose to sting. "No. Robert, absolutely not."

~o~O~o~

"How exactly did this happen?" Lady Sybil asked as she examined her mother's nose.

His Lordship paced around the kitchen, glaring at the four walls with unwarranted animosity. The kettle whistled. Carson removed it from the stove, amazed through his sleep-fuddled mind at the night's events. He had sprung from sleep, woken by a loud knocking at his pantry door, pulling on his robe, he stumbled through the small bedroom connected to his pantry, clumsily wrenching open the door. Lord Grantham stood there, similarly attired; behind him, Lady Sybil coaxed her mother into a chair at the table.

Almost five minutes late, Carson was pouring hot water into a shallow basin and setting it before Lady Sybil, next to a pile of clean towels.

She smiled brightly at him over her mother's head. "Thank you, Carson. If you don't mind…" She gestured for him to come forward. "Pappa?"

"What?" Lord Grantham snapped.

"If you could hold mamma's arm. Carson if you would just grasp the other. Nearer the shoulder," She instructed them. "Now, mamma, your nose is not, in fact, broken."

"What a relief," Lady Grantham sighed.

"It simply needs to be realigned. However, this can be quite painful, so," she handed her mother a mug containing a small measure of heated brandy, "Drink this. Pappa, Carson, you will be required to hold mamma if she struggles."

"Is that likely?" Lord Grantham asked, she trembled slightly under his hand.

Lady Sybil nodded, taking the now empty glass from her mother. "Hold her firmly," she told the men, hands forming a triangle around her mother's nose. Lady Grantham screamed, body twitching, legs jerking.

Carson, feeling incorrect, grasped Lady Grantham's shoulder a little more firmly as she struggled. Her daughter wore an expression of intense concentration; hair pulled back into a hasty knot on top of her head, sleeves rolled up around her elbows.

"There!" She cried triumphantly.

Carson removed his hands.

Her Ladyship slumped backwards into the kitchen chair, elegant face streaked with sweat and blood. "Oh! Sybil, where did you learn to do that?"

Lady Sybil wrung a washcloth out, gently cleaning her mother's face. "There may be a small bruise, mamma, and there is the possibility of some soreness and swelling."

"But my nose won't be crooked?" Her mother demanded.

Her daughter smiled, cheerily. "Not at all. Now," she turned to Carson, "If you would not mind warming a bit more brandy. For the pain, mamma."

"Can you bring it up?" Lord Grantham asked. "This has all been too much."

"Of course, My Lord."

"Excellent. Cora…" He helped the trembling countess to her feet; she leant on his arm, looking up at him with half-exasperated adoration. Their youngest daughter was gathering the soiled towels from the floor.

"My Lady, I can clean this up," he suggested gently.

Lady Sybil continued picking up the dirty, bloody towels. "Oh, I can manage. Where should I…?"

"The…Through that door over there…My Lady, let…" His words fell on deaf ears. Lady Sybil had opened the door to the small laundry, a room that had never seen a member of the Crawley family before.

"Is it fine to just put these in the sink?"

Carson replied yes, now completely flummoxed as Lady Sybil deposited the towels in the sink, shut the laundry door, and picked up the basin from the sink and poured the water into the sink. She reached for the bar of soap, and Carson knew he had to put a stop to it.

"My Lady, allow me," he gently pried the soap out of her hands.

Her mouth curved downward into a small frown. "Mr. Carson, I can, I am able to wash a bowl. I sterilize surgical tools, clamps and scalpels. Last week I helped remove a bullet from a man's thigh, the laceration was nearly six inches wide but I managed to stitch the leg back together. This morning, I fixed the break in a little boy's femur," her voice was even and mild as it ever was but Carson detected a steely note behind her soft, matter of fact words. "I can wash a bowl."

He relinquished the bar of soap.

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

Feeling even more wrong-footed he turned back to the stove and minded the brandy. "The boy," he finally asked when the silence had worn on too long, "Will he be all right?"

Lady Sybil smiled. "Oh, yes. He's just seven, and when you're younger, your bones knit better. In a few months he'll be fine, the injury won't ever affect him. However, if I had climbed up a large oak on a dare and fell out and broken my femur, the injury would be more severe, a direct consequence of being slightly older."

As she finished her story, she set the basin, as clean as any Carson had ever seen, into the draining board. "Well," she looked around the kitchen. "I believe that is everything, save the brandy. Thank you for your help, Carson."

"It was my pleasure, My Lady."

"Good night, Carson."

"Good night, My Lady."

And with that, Lady Sybil danced from the chief, leaving Carson at the stove, only slightly less perplexed by the night's event.

~o~O~o~

Edith's pink skirt swished and swirled as she moved throughout the ballroom, edging along the wall while trying to find her own small group of peers. Women her age, possessors of neither great beauty or wit, talentless in the eyes of society. The scraps picked up by second sons with small fortunes, desperate to marry and procreate. The fading blooms of high society, were well mannered, pleasing, and as desperate as their perspective husbands to avoid spinsterhood.

Across the room her mother, on her father's arm, looked dainty and almost faerie-like in a gown of pale emerald as she laughed, the center of attention within her parents' crowd of friends.

A ways off, her grandmother sat with two other elderly women, gesturing imperiously with her polished black ornamental cane. Sybil was likewise occupied in conversation, even though she had arrived an hour late into the evening. Her little sister was the center of life among a small group of women known to have liberal sympathies, including the notorious Dorothy Cephas.

Mary, naturally, found herself surrounded by a small regiment of young men sharply dressed in uniform.

Evelyn Napier caught her eye over the shoulder of a tall man with blond hair. His eyes widened as Edith lifted her hand to wave. Swiftly, she made her way towards Mr. Napier and his companion, noticing the frozen expression on his face as she drew closer.

"Mr. Napier, how nice it is to see you."

His smile looked more painful than friendly. "Likewise, Lady Edith. Excuse me, Sir Anthony. I've just spotted Lord Cecil – must have a word."

Sir Anthony Strallan turned around, shocked expression mirroring her own. Edith was certain her heart skipped a beat – or three. "Sir Anthony." Her throat was not working properly; her mouth had run dry. "How nice -"

The eyes, which had gazed at her during those long country drives, suddenly found the floor very interesting. "Lady Edith. Excuse me."

"Wait!" She grabbed his arm as he tried to move away from her. They stared down at her hand, clutching his forearm, a last-ditch hope that she might be able to repair a small portion of the damage Mary had caused.

"Lady Edith," he pleaded with his voice as well as his eyes, "Please."

Sheepishly Edith relinquished her hold on his arm. "I think you may have gotten the wrong idea at the garden party last August."

"Oh, no, your sister Lady Mary made everything brutally clear."

"No," Edith gushed, "Mary and I, at the time, were in the middle of a…a very petty fight. I only wish to apologize, Sir Anthony. You were not supposed to be a casualty."

"So…" He cleared his throat. "At the garden party, you were not avoiding me?"

Edith shook her head. "No. I swear."

"And…you do not consider me an old booby."

"No! Never!"

After a tense moment, in which she held her breath, a smile came to his face. "Lady Edith, I'm a bit parched." He offered her his arm; she laid her hand gently this time on it, staring up at him in wonder. "Shall we find some refreshment?"

~o~O~o~

The door to the small library opened and closed. A pair of slender hands attached to delicate, kissable wrists settled on his shoulders. John turned around slightly; Anna beamed down at him.

"Mr. Carson and Mrs. Perkins are occupied with something or other, and Miss O'Brien and Mr. Molesley have gone out somewhere."

"Alone at last."

"I thought I might make some tea, do you want…?"

John pulled her down into his lap. Fleetingly, worried that the move was too presumptuous. Anna's smile widened (if such a thing was possible) and perched herself on his good knee, arms wrapping around his neck.

"Are these for work?" She asked gesturing to the papers organized into four separate piles on the table before them. "I'm not distracting you?"

"Never."

"What are they?"

"Important papers." He pushed them away, lips tickling the side of her neck. "Classified, information."

"Classified," Anna moaned, eyes sparkling, head falling to the side to grant him better access. Her fingers came up, combing through his hair. "Um…Classified."

~o~O~o~

The dining room of Grantham House was a bijou, soft and delicately decorated, compared to the dining room at Downton Abbey. Set in the east side of the house, away from the occasionally noisy street with a spectacular view of the English garden that could easily be seen through two large windows by people seated at the table. The wallpaper around the eggshell white baseboard, chair, and crown moldings was a merry robins egg blue patterned with fleur-de-lis. The Dowager Countess had opposed such decor, dubbing it too French.

Lady Grantham's influence could be felt in every square inch of the room. Unfortunately, her presence, thus far, was absent from the meal. Her husband, preoccupied with an uncensored headline in that mornings Times, paid no attention to the rhubarb at his breakfast table.

Carson thought the older Crawley sisters were being a tad too harsh on the youngest, though their sisterly concern was natural.

"Well, I can't believe you were so late," Lady Mary declared, smearing a dainty measure of jam onto her toast. "And I can't believe you were conversing with_ her_."

"Who was Sybil talking to?" Lady Grantham asked as she rounded the doorway.

"Dorothy Cephas. The soon to be ex-wife of Roderick Cephas," Lady Edith explained.

"I didn't know who she was." Lady Sybil said defensively, while helping herself to more coffee and eggs.

Lady Edith rolled her eyes. "You've been living in London since January and you have not kept pace with society?"

"I've been busy saving lives," Sybil retorted. "Why does she want a divorce?"

"Oh, I can't imagine," Lady Grantham sighed, "Robert, he works with you in the war office, doesn't he?"

"Does something with the newspapers," Lord Grantham said absentmindedly. "Delightful chap from what I can tell. Good mates with Sir Richard Carlisle."

"Sybil, don't eat so fast," Lady Grantham admonished, dismayed by how fast and furiously her daughter was eating. "It's most unladylike, dear."

"I must," Sybil said through a mouthful. "I'll be late if I don't. Colonel Smith is being discharged today and I want to say goodbye."

"Oh, whose Colonel Smith?" Her father asked, finally setting down the paper.

"My patient. He's very happily married. With five children," Sybil said, catching her sisters'` inquisitive gazes. She finished the last of her coffee. "Now, I have to go." She kissed her mother on the cheek as she passed her. "I'll be home at about six – hopefully."

"Hopefully?" Lady Mary echoed.

"Barring any emergency."

Lord Grantham returned to his paper. "I'll send the motor to collect you."

"Oh, that isn't necessary. I can take the trolley to Byatt Street and walk the rest of the way." Sybil hurried out of the dinning room almost bumping into Mr. Molseley.

"Excuse me, My Lady."

"Not at all," Lady Sybil told the footman brightly. "I believe the fault was mine."

Mr. Molesley handed a letter to Carson. "This just came for Lord Grantham."

"Aren't you forgetting something, Sybil dear?" Lord Grantham called after his youngest daughter.

She frowned. "Oh, yes. Sorry, pappa." She came back into the room and kissed her father on the cheek before rushing out again.

**tbc…**

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**a/n: **Went back to school this week! My life is crazy! I will make an effort to update once a week, though, but apologize if some chapters are a little later than others.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. You make my day : )


	12. XI Mary, Mary Quite Contrary

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

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**PLEASE READ: **This chapter contains a subject that is both sensitive and controversial in nature. I am not attempting to take a stand or make a statement by including this subject, I have striven to not include my personal views. My ONLY motive is to write story. I do not mean to offend anyone, however, I understand that it may be unavoidable and would like to apologize in advance.

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**XI. Mary, Mary Quite Contrary**

_June 20 – July 20, 1915 _

Molesley cut the roast beef on his plate into thin carefully sized portions, lifting only the most mediocre bit sized pieces to his mouth, chewing slowly, methodically, and trying to avoid looking at Anna – or her boyfriend.

Bates was laughing at something Miss O'Brien had said – one of her milder acidic remarks.

And Anna was gazing at him, a deep – seated warmth (love) blooming and ripening in her eyes. She had such lovely eyes.

He shuffled more food into his mouth.

He'd seen them together in the library. Almost everyone else was out, enjoying the freedom and recreation the city provided on their night off, or in Mr. Carson and Mrs. Perkin's cases, tied up in household business.

Molesley had had no desire to intrude and see them together, yet somehow he could not keep himself from the library as he passed and overheard a man and a woman's voice, lowered to that soft decimal of embracing lovers.

Through the crack between the library door and the wall he could make out Anna, stretched out across a chaise on the opposite side of the room. Bates held her against his chest, tracing the plains of her face tenderly.

"Will it be like this?" Anna asked.

"When we are married." Bates nodded. "If we want it to be. I'd like that – I'd like that very much. Peaceful evenings, wrapped up together. On our own couch, in our own home." He bent, kissing the tip of her nose, than her closed eyelids. "Just us. No creeping about, no stolen moments."

At this point, unable to bear such torture, Molesley pulled himself away.

~o~O~o~

"Sybil."

She looked up; Mrs. Crawley's head was poking around the nurses' lounge door, mien corrugate. "I need your help."

Sybil sprung to her feet.

"Quickly now," Mrs. Crawley urged, briskly. She herself was nearly trotting along the hallway; on closer inspection her cousin's face was pale, fresh blood stained her apron, beads of perspiration dotted her brow.

"What's wrong?" Sybil panted as they ran up the stairs, leaping over two, three at once.

"Philomena Pince," She gasped. "We think she's suffering complications from a miscarriage…but there's something not quite right about it." Mrs. Crawely pushed open the door to operation room two.

Sybil quickly rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her hands before approaching the woman writhing and crying out upon the operation table. Philomena Pince, a woman who looked about thirty, was deathly white underneath the shock of her long, red curly hair. Her fingers grasped the side of the table; she convulsed, seizing. Eyes wild with pain, head thrown back, baying, keening like an animal.

Sybil leant over her, holding Philomena by the shoulders and pushing her down so she lay flat on her back. "Miss Pince, can you hear me?"

The woman moaned.

"Miss Pince when did the bleeding start? Nurse Crawely – Isobel, she's -"

Mrs. Crawely's face appeared over her shoulder. "Yes, I know dear. Miss Pince did you do anything to bring about a termination of your pregnancy?"

Unable to speak through her sobs, Philomena nodded violently before her eyes rolled back in her head and she slipped unconscious.

Sybil, fingers pressed to the inside curve of Philomena's wrist, felt her pulse weaken and die. "Isobel, she's stopped breathing!"

A half an hour later, Sybil stood in the doorway of operation room two, shoulder resting against the frame as she felt herself weaken first physically than emotionally. An orderly disposed of the mess: bloody surgical implements, cotton swabs, Philomena Pince's body.

She sensed a presence at her side, felt a hand on her shoulder.

Dr. Wyatt smiled down at her, sympathetically, understandingly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Sybil choked. "She was too young to…" Her voice broke. Daintily, she pressed the backs of her fingers to her mouth, fat tears rolled down her face.

Dr. Wyatt wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "She did it to herself," he said in gentle, soothing tones.

Sybil spun around, dislodging his arm, incredulous. "How can -?

"She sought out an abortionist." He held up his hands in defense, "It's true. I'm right, Nurse Crawley," he added, sternly. "Come away from it – it won't do you any good, there's nothing you can do."

Sybil looked back into the room: the orderly covered Philomena's body with a sheet, the woman's skin paler than the cloth. "No. I'm going to wait – I've notified her parents and they're on their way."

Dr. Wyatt shrugged. "Suit yourself. Your cousin's talking with the police, they'll want to interrogate you after."

~o~O~o~

London was snared in the leghold trap of abnormally hot, sultry weather. In Lord Grantham's cramped office, he and Mr. Bates perspired through their shirtsleeves. Their ties were loose and their jackets long ago discarded. The windows were thrown open in hopes of tempting the feeblest breeze, any relief from the heavy, suffocating heat.

A knock sounded. Lord Grantham looked up, folding the map spread open across his desk while Bates got up to answer the door, waiting to answer it until the positions of the British Army on the Gallipoli Front were buried in the crease.

Anthony Strallan, red cheeked and puffing from the climate, beamed as he stepped into the room, making it seem infinitely tinier. "Good afternoon, Lord Grantham."

Robert stood, pulling on his jacket and tightening the noose of a tie. Across the room, Bates followed suit. "Good afternoon, Sir Anthony."

"I say, this weather is quite warm, such a change from those cold Yorkshire winters."

"Indeed," Robert agreed. "What can I do for you, Sir Anthony?"

"I wanted to extend an invitation to you and your lovely family to dine at my house Saturday next."

"That sounds fine, of course I'll need to check with Lady Grantham, she keeps track of all our social engagements. I just show up, smartly dressed."

Anthony Strallan laughed.

"What time are we expected?"

"Oh, seven o'clock or so I should say," he smiled before bowing slightly. "Well, I don't want to intrude. I'll leave you to your work. I look forward to seeing you Saturday."

"Until Saturday."

The door was barely closed behind Strallan and Robert and Bates were pulling off their jackets and unsecuring ties and collars. "That was odd," Robert remarked. "Then again, Anthony Strallan was always a bit of a strange bloke. Bit of a dandy. You know the type."

"Indeed, My Lord."

~o~O~o~

"I have not been a nurse for very long."

The police officer settled behind the desk, Dr. Clarkson had loaned him his office. His anxiousness to show that St. Thomas was cooperating, were not comforting.

She clasped her hands in her lap, twisting her thumbs around her fingers.

The police officer smiled kindly. "That's fine. I just need to take your statement. Can you tell me what happened? Exactly as it happened."

"I was in the nurses' lounge when Nurse Crawely -"

"I'm sorry, Isobel Crawley is a relation of yours? Yes?"

Sybil nodded. "Yes, that is correct. She is my cousin."

The police officer lent closer across the desk, his generous stomach cut on the sharply polished edge. "You seem nervous, Miss Crawley. There's no reason to be so excited, I assure you. You aren't in any trouble."

Her cheeks felt warm; she clasped her hands more tightly together. "I have never been interviewed by the police sir."

He held up his hand, "Then your apprehension is understandable. Now, tell me what happened."

Sybil recounted the horrible memory, as brief as it was possible for her to do so. The police inspector finished filling out his report and stuffed it into a briefcase as soon as Sybil stopped speaking. "Thank you, Miss Crawely. I don't aspect you'll here from us again on this matter."

~o~O~o~

Anthony Strallan's cramped drawing room was made smaller by the lack of aridity and the dark paint spread upon the walls. Some shade of sepia clashed atrociously with the furniture, a hybrid of the dainty feminine tables and chairs Lady Strallan must have preferred during her lifetime and blockier, solid pieces.

Mary took a generous sip of wine, trying not to focus on the room's features – or her sister flirting with Anthony Strallan.

Or doing a rather wild impression of flirting. There was a great deal of eyelash fluttering, from both Edith and Strallan.

"They make a handsome couple."

_I'm not sure handsome is the word for them,_ Mary thought, smiling up at Rodrick Cephas. "I don't believe we have been formally introduced."

"How terribly rude of me." He sat besides her: at this angle the oil he used to slick back his hair deluged around the black strands. "Mr. Rodrick Cephas." He picked up her hand not occupied with the wine glass and kissed it; his lips felt dry and chapped. "At your service, My Lady."

"I'm sure. Now you must excuse me," and with that Mary stood, "I think my mother wants me."

~o~O~o~

By Sunday afternoon, the heat gave way to summer thunderstorms. Armed with an umbrella spacious enough for two, Anna and Mr. Bates departed Grantham House and began making their way towards his mother's flat on the opposite side of London.

They cut through the park, walking under cover of green canopies, with hands wrapped around each other's, fingers interlocked.

"I'm a little nervous," Anna confessed. John looked down at her, frowning slightly. "It's just – you're still married and most people would frown on it – us – and I want your mother to like me. Is that silly?"

"I suppose not," He admitted. "And my mother loves you. Already, she's asking me when I'm going to make an honest woman of you, and about grandchildren."

"Grandchildren? Oh, my." She had thought of it – them – grandchildren, or having children of her own with John. Their cuddle on the couch lit the spark, and now several ideas were ignited and burning. Children, Anna was realizing, were just one of many things they had not discussed.

She stopped right in her tracks. Unconsciously, John tightened his grip on her hand.

"Anna?"

"John," she began slowly, "The other night, we were talking about when we are married. Our couch, our home, the peaceful evenings wrapped up together. Just the two of us."

"I meant every word," John promised, eyes, expression solemn. "I want to spend my evenings wrapped up with you."

Anna laid a loving hand on his upper arm, stroking the bicep. "I know you do, John, I never doubted that for a second. Have you thought about children?"

The question sounded loud in her own ears, seemed to echo back to her. For a moment he simply stared at her and Anna began to feel slightly nervous.

"You mean with you?" He asked, the corners of his mouth rising. His chest began to shake; he was laughing at her.

"John Bates, I don't believe you." Anna placed her hands on her hips, adopting a mock-stern look.

"I'm sorry, love." He moved forward and tried to kiss her.

Anna turned her head away, pretending to be angry now. "Don't even try to steal a kiss, not when you're laughing at me."

A kiss landed on her cheek anyway. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest; Anna ducked her head under his chin.

"I apologize, Anna. I assumed children were a given."

"So you want children," she pressed. "Not just because I want them."

"Anna, I will love our children. I love the idea of them." John pulled back, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "I would like to have you all to myself for a year of two."

A few rays of rebellious sunshine defied the clouds; suddenly the whole sky seemed blue, the whole park and London beyond sunny. Anna leaned up to kiss him. "I think I can live with that. Having you all to myself for a year or two."

"Can you?" John kissed her back, lips moving over hers.

Anna had to tear herself away. "John, we're going to be late. What will your mother think if we're late?"

"My mother _loves _you." Never the less, he picked up her hand, tucking it into the curve of his elbow. "You haven't asked me. About Vera," he said, after a moment. "You can, Anna."

The sky was grey; the sunshine faded.

"I don't want to seem pushy, John, I know you're trying very hard to find her. And I'm sure you will," she said, seeing his dismay.

He put a hand on her arm, stopping her.

"What?"

Using his cane, he pointed. Ahead of them a path crossed theirs. Strolling down it was Lady Edith and Anthony Strallan. They watched Strallan stop, pointing to a mother duck and the three balls of fluffy yellow feathers swimming in her wake.

Strallan took Lady Edith's hands gently in his, leaning close and whispering something.

A moment later, blushing, Lady Edith nodded.

~o~O~o~

Upon returning to Grantham House, Edith went quickly to her room and once there, she sat in an almost meditative state until the time reflected on the clock forced her to begin preparations for that night's event.

He had asked her if he could ask her that question. Again.

He also begged her to use his first name, and she granted him permission to use hers in return.

Anthony was being very attentive, very loving. Edith was filled with the overwhelming sense of wanting to unburden herself to someone. Not her family; Sybil was at work (the idea, even spoken inside the perimeters of her head, was an odd one), and Mary might try and foul her happiness. Again. Pappa was at work; mamma was having tea with Aunt Rosamund and Granny.

She rang the bell then remembered Anna was away for the afternoon and sighed, resigning herself to a lonely afternoon of daydreaming.

~o~O~o~

"Lady Mary."

Mary groaned mentally. "Mr. Cephas." The man had been circling her like a hawk all evening. Her skin crawled; she could feel his eyes raking over her, hot as a pair of coals, all evening. It made her stomach turn.

He smiled, holding out his hand. "I was hoping you would dance with me."

"How is your wife?" She demanded, coolly.

"Estranged." Mr. Cephas leaned closer, eyes sparkling. "You wound me, Lady Mary. Come now, come dance with me."

Mary scoffed fixing him with the stare that had wounded many an overly hopeful suitor. "I think not."

He grabbed hold of her arm as she turned to leave. Mary cried out as his nails dug into her skin through her gloves. His breath was foul in her ear: "Don't be so high and mighty. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Don't spurn me. I've heard about you; you're not a blushing, virginal maid."

"I warn you," she hissed, "Unhand me or else I'll-"

"You'll what?" His eyes sparkled. "I do love a woman with such spirit!"

"Cephas!"

Out of nowhere, her father appeared, grabbing Cephas by the shoulder and pulling him away from Mary with such force he toppled to the ground.

"Leave me. Leave me!" He bellowed to the nearby men who bent to offer a helping hand, eyes burning with badly cocealed rage and loathing.

"If I ever see you so much as glance in any of my daughter's general directions," Lord Grantham swore, but lowly, almost gently so only Cephas and Mary could hear him. "I will tell Judge Turpin that I know you for a guilty man and a cad."

He wrapped his arm around Mary's shoulders; the crowd of dancers stilled and parted for them, mouths agape.

"Are you all right, darling?" He asked.

Her mother stood, ushering Mary into her chair.

"I'm perfectly fine, no mamma, don't fuss."

Aunt Rosamund raised her voice so the people around them could hear her. "I know for a fact, Mrs. Cephas walked in on him with a housemaid. They were - how to phrase such vulgarity – entangled." Her voice rose slightly higher. "In the throws of l'amour."

"Really, Rosamund," Granny snapped wrapping the marble floor with her cane. "How a daughter of mine ever became so crude, I'll never know."

Lord Grantham grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server. "I have half a mind to go back and give Cephas what for."

Rosamond grinned wickedly. "Lay him out, efficiently, as it were?"

Granny shook her head, nearly letting out a snort of derision. "Don't be ridiculous, Robert. You've never 'laid anyone out' in your life. Much less a man with Mr. Cephas' reputation. How a man of his standing ever obtained an invitation to Lord Marchmen's party, I'll never know."

In her seat, Mary clasped her hands, trying to conceal their trembling. Her mother laid a motherly hand upon her shoulder. "Robert, I think we should go. This has all been too much."

"Mamma-"

"No, Mary, your mother speaks the truth." He downed the rest of his drink in one. "Has anyone seen Edith?"

~o~O~o~

Edith let Anthony sweep her away from the crowded ballroom to a spacious balcony, overlooking a lush garden. "Thank you, Anthony," she said as he led her over to sit on the bench running the length of the balcony. "It is so beautiful out here."

"Yes," he agreed, breathlessly. "Beautiful."

He slid to his knee before her, taking her hands in his. "Edith, I would consider it a great honor if you would be my wife."

**tbc...**


	13. XII The Future Lady Strallan

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

Winner of a Highclere Award : )

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**a/n:** a special thank you of deep, deep appreciation for the person who nominated my story for a Highclere Award and those who voted for my story.

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**XII. The Future Lady Strallan **

_July 21 - 25, 1951 _

"Lord Grantham!"

Robert and Bates both paused at the opposite end of the lobby from where the voice resonated and turned around: Anthony Strallan, one hand raised in familiarity, cut a path across the crowded lobby. A few men gave him dark looks, scowling as he nearly flounced through the hall. Obviously, not everyone working at the War Office was inclined towards mornings, much less so on a Monday.

"Sir Anthony, good morning."

He beamed. "It is, isn't it? I was hoping to speak with you," he added quickly, "About a very important matter. Do you have a moment?"

Robert looked to Bates.

"You have a meeting scheduled in ten minutes, My Lord," his valet supplied helpfully.

"Ah, thank you, Bates," Robert said, extremely grateful for Bates' ability to think quickly on his feet.

Bates inclined his head slightly; Robert swore he saw a glint of amusement in his valet's eyes as Strallan bounced backwards than forwards on his feet with all the impatience of a small child in a toy store; the patience a grown man supposedly possessed was extinct within him.

"I can take your briefcase up to your office, My Lord, and begin preparations for the presentation."

"Yes, thank you." Robert handed Bates his briefcase. "Now, what can I do for you, Sir Anthony?"

"Well – I don't know – that is to say," Strallan stammered, "Has Lady Edith told you anything of my – feelings for her?"

"No. She has not. Though, I was under the impression that you were courting her," Robert explained, "At least unofficially."

Strallan blanched. Paused mid-bounce; he pitched forward, unbalanced on the balls of his feet. For one dreadful moment, Robert thought he might have to catch the man to keep him from falling over. "I hold Lady Edith in very high esteem, Lord Grantham. There is no woman on earth who I regard more. I would like – that is to say – I wish to marry her."

~o~O~o~

"Marry her!"

"Robert, must you pace like that? It's so disconcerting."

Halting midstride, Robert turned to his wife who was analyzing her reflection, examining it and putting on a few last minute touches to her ensemble. "How are you so calm? Anthony Strallan wants to marry Edith."

Cora slid a pair of black, satin gloves up her arm. She hoped her amusement at Robert's disposition did not show on her face; he really was adorable whenever he was an overprotective or doting father. Thankfully, his moods concerning their daughters usually lent towards the latter.

He turned now, about to commence pacing. "Marry her," he sighed. The possibility was overwhelming.

"Oh, the nerve of Sir Anthony," Cora remarked, dryly, knowing she needed to bolster Robert out of his funk before they went downstairs for dinner.

Robert blinked, expression of amazed disbelief taking over his face. "You're mocking me."

Cora stood up from her vanity. "Robert, what did you think would happen when we had daughters?" She demanded softly. Gently she reached out to grasp his hands. "They're going to leave and marry, have children of their own. We've always known that."

He clasped her hands in his. "I'm sorry, Cora. They're still little girls in my mind's eye, running around and playing those childish games you used to devise on rainy days and listening so attentively to my stories. They never listen to me now, of course," he added wistfully.

Cora kissed his check. "Are you certain Edith wants to marry Sir Anthony," she asked. "It certainly seemed so last August. But then they had a falling out, poor thing."

"I'm afraid so," Robert said, inclining his head in a sad little nod of assent.

"Then you'll give them your blessing?" Cora pressed.

"It would be unreasonable for me not to. He will make her happy, won't he?" Robert asked.

Consolingly, Cora rubbed his shoulder, privately thinking that Robert had better give them his blessing as this was the best offer Edith would most likely receive, and wedding Sir Anthony was what was best for her future. "I believe so."

Robert nodded, the movement seemed to convey resignation, and Cora bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. He had liked Sir Anthony (dull as paint though the man undoubtedly was) before the man wished to marry his daughter. Of course, she could not point out this hypocrisy now. That would be tactless and cruel. Instead she slipped her arm through his and led him to the door.

"Well, he'd better make Edith happy, or else," Robert concluded, rather anticlimactically. Cora gave him another reassuring pat on the arm. "You know, I always thought it would be Mary who married first. I've been mentally preparing myself for it since her first season."

"Yes, well, it will be very hard on Mary to have her younger sister wedded before her. Can't you think of anyone suitable? Perhaps we could arrange something."

Robert scoffed. "I doubt that tactic will prove effective. It hasn't yet."

"But it will have to," Cora pressed, "Mary's running out of options. And out of time."

~o~O~o~

"Well I've heard something interesting this morning," O'Brien said as she sat down at the table.

Anna did not stop her work, completing three stitches as the lady's maid opened her little sewing box and dug around in the chaotic depths for white thread. "Really?"

"Yes really," O'Brien snapped.

Besides Anna, Molesley shook his head, smothering a laugh behind his hand.

"What's so funny?" The lady's maid demanded, eyes narrowed, face pinched in a fierce scowl that had dispensed with most people but did not faze Molesley an inch.

"Miss O'Brien, kindly restrict yourself to a more agreeable tone of voice."

Anna, Molesley, and O'Brien sprang to attention as Mr. Carson entered the room. He indicated that they should sit and they did. "I hope you weren't gossiping, Miss O'Brien," the butler told the lady's maid sternly.

"Not at all, Mr. Carson." Then she muttered under her breath, "It ain't gossip if it's true."

"What's true?" Molesley asked once Mr. Carson was safely out of earshot.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I've asked you nicely."

"Hold your britches on," O'Brien commanded. Molesley's eyes widened, shocked. Anna barely managed to turn her giggle into a discrete cough. "You'll both know soon enough, I suspect."

~o~O~o~

"I can't believe your leaving tomorrow."

Anna's eyes stopped moving over the scenery – the bench on which they sat provided them a picturesque view of the pond, Prussian blue surface shining with the sun's reflection, and surrounding greenery – and focused on the man sitting besides her, her hand clasped loosely, comfortably within his grasp.

He had not spoken for more than a quarter of an hour. Preferring silence, after helping her into her summer coat and departing Grantham House, they exchanged few and far words in between the moneyed neighborhood and the park. John was deep in thought; brow slightly furrowed, the corners of his mouth bowing ever so little. It was best to let him be when he was like this, in a strongly contemplative mood, as long as his temperament did not turn too introspective and brooding.

Anna squeezed his hand. He always told her what was on his mind in his own time. "What's that, love?"

John shifted, turning fully to face her. "Five more months until Christmas comes around."

"Eighteen weeks," Anna pointed out, dourness suddenly overshadowing the bright day and the adorable ducklings that quacked and splashed in the water close to the bank.

"One hundred and twelve days."

"We can't think like this."

"No. But it's extremely hard not to."

John picked up her hand. After he unwound their fingers he held Anna's hand flat in his, using his other hand to remove the soft white fabric of her glove. Pulling at the fingers, undoing the button, sliding first her gloves off then his. Deliberately tickling the skin of her palms and the valleys in between her slender fingers before pressing his lips to the joints, to the rough callouses on the undersides, symbolic of service.

"Oh, John," Anna sighed – overwhelmed by the look of utter bliss on his face as well as the crease of his mouth on her naked flesh. She clasps his face with her hands; somewhere outside, somewhere away from this bench is a bustling city and a world at war.

But here it is just the two of them, alone, not bound by the rules of a house or the rules of propriety, and the rigid social class system (Anna swears she almost understands Branson sometimes) fades into nothingness.

"Tell me you'll be there," John whispers, his voice hoarse and pleading. He touches the gold chain inching above her collar; next to her own heart the locket he'd given her at Christmas rests. "Waiting."

"Of course." Anna kisses him. Slowly, achingly, until the need to breathe is mightier than their combined need to be together. She sees her face through his eyes – more beautiful than she remembers it being that morning – fingers dancing over his cheeks. "Silly beggar."

**tbc…**

* * *

**a/n: **officially the shortest chapter (at four pages) to date!


	14. XIII Féile na Marbh

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XIII. ****Féile na Marbh**

_Autumn ~ 1915_

_It is not easy having him gone, even for such a short length of time as the season. With a sigh, Mrs. Hughes glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece from the settee in her parlor. _

_Ten-thirty in the evening, and barely ten minutes passed since her last consultation of the wretched timepiece. She gave the knitting in her lap, normally therapeutic, a cross look; stupid, unwieldy thing resembled a yellow blob more than a baby's bootie. _

_Thoroughly irritable, she cast the project into her sewing basket. The ball of yarn bounced over the wicker edge and rolled, the dimorphic loops unraveling, yellow string tailing behind it like snail sludge. _

_Mrs. Hughes groaned. "Of all the foolish things to do," she chided. The tricky ball settled underneath her desk, at just the right position to render it impossible to reach. She needed to kneel down and fish around. "This is what temper gets you, Elsie Hughes. Throwing a tantrum over your knitting. Honestly -"_

_Her fingers connected with something small, hard, and smooth. She paused mid tirade, pulling her hand (now dusted with a light grey sheen) out from under the desk. Resting in her palm was a large, black hardwearing type of button. She recognized it instantly; though, the button was much too big and masculine in appearance to belong on any article of clothing she owned. It matched the buttons on Charles' summer coat perfectly. _

_He must have been in a right fit of pique when he discovered its truancy, she thought fondly, depositing the button with the yarn into her sewing basket for safe keeping. _

_Elsie missed her friend. She told herself she missed him this badly every season, and when the lie does nothing to deter the obstinate truth she blames the war but that isn't quite honest either._

_She'd been head housemaid for one year exactly when Charles came to Downton. He had no background in service, hired on merit of height rather than experience. That caused quite a bit of conflict below stairs at the time, especially when Lord Grantham promoted him to butler at what some considered a young age for such an important job. _

_He was silent, stoic, and nearly ten years her senior. He was pleasant enough yet aloof, and so blatantly by the books that he made no close friends; though, she supposed, she never had a great number of friends in her younger days, a few close female confidants that had gone on in one way or another by now. _

_Charles made a dignified, unflappable, incredibly fair butler. Three years later, when Elsie became housekeeper she was in a rare position to know the man beneath the gruff, conservative exterior. The mutual regard blossomed into true friendship, and slowly burned into…Elsie shook her head, dispelling the thought. Charles never - never, ever – gave her any indication that he needed anything more from her than friendship –which Elsie gave, writing off her feelings as the last remains of girlish foolishness _

_It could have been nice, she supposed, once upon a time, but that day was far past her now. _

~o~O~o~

_Its good to be home, _Carson thought. He stood stock still in the center of the corridor outside his pantry, taking stock of his domain, the tell tales sign of Elsie's approach, the jingling sound keys make when strung together, nye on music to his ears.

The mainspring in his life rounded the corner and froze, a wide smile seizing her face. "Charles."

He was glad to hear his given name on her lips. Glad they weren't going to slide backwards into the use of formal appellations.

"Hello, Elsie."

"How was your journey?" She asked, then said hastily. "I have something for you. Before I forget."

"Do you?" Carson followed her into the housekeeper's parlor. Watched as she dug around in her sewing basket for something. "It's not a present, so you needn't look so excited," Elsie grinned. "Ah, here it is. I believe this belongs to you."

She held a large circle in between her middle and index finger, as she drew closer it transformed into the missing button from his coat. "So this is where it's been hiding?"

"It must have fallen off by my desk," she supplied, already threading a needle. "That last morning when you were fretting about the house coming down without you. No wonder you didn't notice is fall off in such a state. This won't take a moment."

"Might I remind you, Elsie, that it was your well-being I was 'fretting' about?" Carson undid the buttons of his coat, poised to remove it. "Since you've managed perfectly on your own with only Branson and the hall-boys perhaps you don't need the rest of the male staff?"

"None of that, now. Of course you're needed." She shot him an amused look. "Don't fish for compliments, Charles. It's not becoming of a man in your position." Elsie stepped up, taking the edge of the open fabric and removing the badly matched button Mrs. Perkins had sewn on for him. She brandished the needle, one hand clutching his coat, head bent to the task. For a brief moment, he inhaled lavender and something faintly coy.

"There," she said with satisfaction, lifting her face to look up into his. "That's better."

~o~O~o~

The engagement party was set for October thirty-first. Cora would have preferred to host it during the actual season but by the time Sir Anthony proposed most of their good friends had left London. The season had passed in a blur of vibrant colors and anxious hushed conversations; the only reason they remained so late in the summer was because Robert would not be returning with them and Cora wanted her family to be together for as long as possible.

"It's ludicrous."

"Oh, granny," Edith sighed. "Sir Anthony wants-"

"I don't care what your intended thinks he wants," her grandmother snapped, "Halloween is not a suitable theme for an engagement party."

Cora rubbed her temples, as her mother-in-law muttered something about it being base and steeped in Pagan idolatry, hoping to soothe the throbbing pains lurking behind them. Mrs. Hughes, who sat a little ways off with a pad of paper taking notes, smiled sympathetically.

"I think it could be quite fun," Cora inserted. "Give opportunity to celebrate Edith and Sir Anthony's upcoming nuptials as well as let our hair down a bit. Were you not the one who thought a little song or dance would not go amiss -"

"Singing and dancing are one thing," The Dowager Countess said imperiously as she stood, drawing herself up to her full height. "But I draw the line at that ridiculous game that man wants us to play. Now I won't be staying for luncheon…"

"I'm sorry to hear that…"

"I will return for supper. You're still dining at eight o'clock, like the rest of civil society, I suppose?"

Core clenched her teeth. "Yes."

"Good. Send Branson around with the car at eight." She marched to the door, which Carson held open for her. "Thank you, Carson."

~o~O~o~

"Let me see if I understand this properly."

"Go on," Mrs. Hughes encouraged as she and Charles walked along the corridor.

"Sir Strallan would like to, how did Lady Edith put it, bob for apples?"

"Yes."

"Which is a game, at its most basic form, that includes dunking ones head into a large barrel of water and fishing for apples with ones mouth."

"Hence the name, Bobbing for Apples." Elsie smothered a giggle with her hand. "Apparently, its more common in America. Something Sir Anthony picked up on his travels."

Charles eyebrows lifted. "Enjoyed widely among small children no doubt."

"Well," Elsie said, "I've never celebrated Halloween in my life before so it'll be something of an adventure I suppose."

"Your not alone in this 'adventure,'" Charles replied darkly.

"In Scotland," Elsie continued as if he hadn't said anything, it was best after all to distract him when he was like this. "We celebrate Samhain not Halloween, and we celebrate it with _Féile na Marbh__." _

"What's…" His nose crinkled around the word. "What is it?"

"Loosely translated it means festival of the dead. Oh, it's nothing too morbid," she added seeing the look on his face, "Not morbid at all. It dates back a very long way so most of the traditions have changed, but there were bonfires and dancing."

Charles mouth curved upwards. "No bobbing for apples."

"None of that silly nonsense," Elsie assured him. "Though, which would you prefer, Charles: the apples or a bonfire constructed on the back lawn?"

~o~O~o~

"I thought it was a lovely service," Anna said.

Besides her Ethel covered her mouth with her hand, imitating a yawn. "Not me. I nearly fell asleep."

"What did you think, Gemma?" Anna asked the new maid.

Gemma was difficult to read. She was older than Anna, but closer to Mr. Bates' age than Mrs. Hughes.' Unlike, Ethel she did not need to be shown anything. The rest of the staff found her more agreeable than the younger housemaid, with her quiet, industrious manner, much to Ethel's annoyance.

Gemma blinked slowly as if surprised to find herself being addressed; while not shy, she was extremely reserved with an omniscient tenor about her. "It was a lovely service, Anna. The vicar is trying to give us hope, which we could use some more of in times like these. I find him to be a very kind man, he welcomed me on my first week here after the service and he certainly did not have to. But then again, everyone is so very kind here."

"Did you not live in such a kind place before?"

"Ethel!" Anna cried, embarrassed on Gemma's behalf.

"No, that's all right," Gemma said. "I fell on some hard times before coming here. I spent a stint working in a poor house, and after that in a textile mill. I tell you," she shook her head gravely, "Those are poor places, bad lighting and stale air."

"I heard some girl got blown up in a munitions factory last week." Really, Ethel sounded much too excited. "Working with an incendiary, making some sort of ammunition and bam!"

Anna, seeing the paler of Gemma's normally fare complexion, interrupted the story. "Thank you, Ethel, but I think we can find pleasanter things to discuss on a Sunday morning such as this."

Ethel frowned, glancing up at the grey clouds above them. "You'd think it was sunny and warm weather. Anyway, you aren't the boss of me, you cannot tell me off-"

"Anna is head housemaid, that makes her your superior and gives her every right."

Anna, Gemma, and Ethel spun around; Mrs. Hughes, hand tucked into the warm crook of Mr. Carson's elbow frowned at Ethel over the crease in her scarf. "And if I see you nodding off during Church again, Ethel, or casting glances at the Greggson's boy …"

"I wasn't casting any glances, like, I swear!" Ethel cried, the very picture of innocent indigence. "It isn't my fault he was looking at me, is it? I can't help it, can I?"

Mrs. Hughes' mouth drew together in a stern line. "He wasn't looking at you before you waved to him. If you cannot conduct yourself properly in God's house then you can stay back at Downton. I'm sure I can think of more productive things for you to do."

"It won't happen again, Mrs. Hughes," Ethel exclaimed, "I promise."

The housekeeper shook her head. Anna got the distinct impression that Mr. Carson was trying hard not to smile while she took Ethel to task. "See that it doesn't."

~o~O~o~

His name was Private Lucas Benjamin and he had come in a week ago with a bullet wedged underneath his kneecap. Dr. Wyatt wanted Sybil to monitor Benjamin, and try to remove the ammunition using less evasive tactics than surgery.

Surgery could not be avoided any longer. A laceration so deep one could glimpse the white of bone when the packing was changed through the red mess of muscle and the shredded sinews of his calf.

"I've tried everything," Sybil informed Dr. Wyatt as he read over Benjamin's chart. "I've asked everyone for help, ideas…"

"I see. And what do you recommend, Sybil?"

"Amputation." The word tastes bitter on her tongue, sharp and cutting, like glass. "Before infection spreads to the knee."

Dr. Wyatt rubbed his brow, closed the chart. "I concur. You'll assist me."

"Really?" The possibility was exciting as it was dangerous and sad. Sybil had not assisted on such a procedure before.

"Yes." He grinned sportingly. "Half-an hour."

"How thrilling," Mrs. Crawley told her when Sybil came downstairs to her cousin's office for her break. "Well, it's a very sad thing for poor Benjamin, but I know you want more challenging procedures and cases."

Sybil grinned, removing a butterscotch from her apron pocket and popping it into her mouth. "You haven't taught me how to suture so I can improve my needlepoint. Actually, my needlepoint has quite deteriorated since I became I nurse, which I don't understand. We suture so often."

Isobel smiled amused. "Your father asked me why you've bought precious little with your allowance besides candy."

Sybil felt her cheeks redden. "I don't feel as if I need much. The candies are for the patients: I purchase little butterscotches for any children and chocolates for the soldiers."

"That's very thoughtful, my dear." Isobel glanced down at the papers spread out before her, a sorrowful-empathy displayed on her continence.

"Is something wrong?" Sybil asked. "It isn't…"

"Matthew? Oh, no," she reached out to touch the photograph of him on her desk. The one in which he sat on her lap, a small boy with plump cheeks. "Dr. Clarkson's son has died."

"But he wasn't fighting. How did George…"

"I'd forgotten. He grew up in the village."

Sybil looked guiltily down at her hands. Tucked into the corner of her cheek, the butterscotch tasted too sweet. "I didn't know him well. He was older than me. He was nice. Pappa always spoke highly of him. He'll want to know – so will Mamma – they'll want to send their condolences. How is Dr. Clarkson managing?"

"Not well. He doesn't write such but George was his only child and Mrs. Clarkson passed when George was young."

"Poor man, to be all alone."

"You wouldn't happen to have any chocolate on you, Sybil?" Isobel asked, removing her glasses and rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

~o~O~o~

There was an urgent knocking at the office door.

"Bates, would you – Oh, never mind." Robert threw down his pen in agitation as the door opened and the source of the racket appeared. "Cousin Isobel."

She clutching at her side, winded and painting, with her hat askew she had the distinct appearance of someone who had just sprinted up several flights of stairs. "You must come. I can't get Sybil out of bed."

"What?" He demanded while reaching for his coat.

"Do you want me to come with, My Lord?"

"No, Bates. Stay here." Robert followed Isobel out the door and at a break neck pace down the hall and to the lift. "What exactly is wrong with her?"

"I can't get her out of bed," Isobel panted.

"I don't see how -"

She cut him off. "Sybil lost a patient yesterday and it's wearing very hard on her. Now, normally she bounces right back but I cannot get her out of bed. She's despondent."

Robert pushed the call button again. "This blasted contraption is taking too long."

They ran down three flights of stairs and threw themselves into a cab. Isobel had given the driver strict instructions to wait for her. With a click of the reins they were off.

Fifteen minutes later, Isobel was opening the door to her flat and Robert was pushing past her.

"Where is she?"

"In her bedroom."

~o~O~o~

_There was blood. It was bad. It was very bad. He was screaming underneath the other nurses' hands and under hers he was bleeding to death as he screamed and then his leg was gone and the operation was over. _

"_Private Benjamin? Private Benjamin! Dr. Wyatt he's not breathing!" _

_And then he was dead…just gone… _

_Numb, Sybil walked through the crowded streets up three flights of stairs to the apartment. Mrs. Bird was the only one there, and she turned from the stove in usual cheerful greeting. _

"_How was your day, My Lady?" Mrs. Bird asked. A glass of milk and a plate of biscuits waited on the table. _

_Sybil began to sob. _

~o~O~o~

"Sybil."

Cautiously, Robert opened the door. Mrs. Bird looked up, a cup of tea in one hand, a tray stacked with breakfast foods rested on the nightstand. She appeared to be trying – and failing – to coax some nourishment into his youngest daughter.

The cook stood, putting the tea down hastily. "My Lord."

"Mrs. Bird, would you be so kind as to…"

"Of course." She made sure to shut the door behind her.

Sybil lay on her side, curled around her pillow.

Robert sat down on the edge of the bed. "Sybil, darling. What's all this about you not getting out of bed?" He stroked her back waiting for a reply. Tears dripped over the bridge of her nose. "What happened at the hospital?"

With a burst of emotion, she sat up, throwing her arms around his shoulders. "Oh, Pappa!" She wept. "It was awful! It's the most awful thing!"

"I know darling…" He stroked the back of her head.

"He just died!" Sybil cried. "I thought I could see him through the amputation. I tried so hard but he…"

"I know darling…" He kissed the crown of her head and hugged her tightly. Later, Robert would tell her a little about realistic expectations. For now, though, he'd let her cry.

~o~O~o~

Above Downton, skimming the grey sky, the Crawley family's coat of arms flapped proudly in the autumn breeze. At first glance the park and garden, the stone facade, were as ever well manicured. On closer inspection, Downton Abbey was not so well kept. The flowers in the garden had wilted weeks earlier than normal, the face of the house, the home and symbol of the family's social ranking, was pallid, pasty, the stones more tried than dazzling.

In the library, Lady Edith sat besides her mother, helping her add the yield from the harvest into the ledgers. It took her no time to notice the one flaw in the takings. "The harvest appears much smaller than last years. Substantially so." Lady Edith lifted her gaze from the leather bound tome. "Why might that be?"

"A lack of man power, M'Lady," the groundskeeper supplied, nervously clutching his battered cap to his chest.

"The madness of last August has reaped a bad crop," Lady Grantham said, if she was less of a lady she might have shown her dismay, instead she was stoic. Standing in the corner, Carson felt the sharp, slicing disappointment for her. "How do we, rather, how will his Lordship's tenants manage through the winter?"

This time it was Mrs. Hughes who answered her as the groundskeeper was at a loss for words. "There is a code of honor amongst farmers, My Lady. In small communities, everyman pitches in to help his neighbor."

"Surely, there must be something we can do?" Lady Edith pressed looking from her mother to the two senior servants. "It seems cruel to leave women and children on their own."

Gently, Carson suggested that if a need arises, charity would be given. Lady Grantham nodded, giving them one of her easy smiles. "Quite right. Why worry before there is real reason?"

~o~O~o~

"If there were more hands in the fields, would the harvest have yielded a larger crop?" Carson asked that night.

Across her parlor, Elsie's hands stilled. Her smile as she glanced up from her knitting was tinted with melancholy. "Oh, I suppose. But it is impossible to really known for certain. The numbers would have improved some I suspect. I have seen too dry a summer and too wet a winter ruin a crop in my youth. Never have I seen the harvest lost because of the farmers themselves."

"It unsettles you?"

"A bit," she sighed, "Though, everything may unsettle us nowadays if we let it. Wouldn't it?"

She was referencing the newspapers, the descriptions of slaughter on the continent, the gunfire and shellings that racked the casualty numbers higher and higher by the day.

He shut his book and set it aside. "How will they manage this winter?"

"They'll buy bread at the local bakery, Charles. They'll have a generous landlady as well as each other."

Her voice was quick and sharp, agitated. Her knitting needles clipped together as she furiously resumed her project. "They're not the only farmers in trouble," Elsie said after a few tense moments, "There'll be plenty like them through Britain. People will be starving come winter, you mark my words, if farmers cannot grow then they cannot eat."

"Consider them marked," Charles replied. She lifted an eyebrow as if trying to judge his seriousness, before turning back to her knitting and gently removing the last three rows of stitches.

"I dropped a few," she offered in an almost cold way sounding nothing like her brisk, business like.

Charles returned to his book, or made a valiant effort to. He did not know how to put to her his next question. His feelings commanded him to ask. Elsie was his friend – his dearest one – and the haunted gleam in her eyes reminded him of a veil or a curtain being drawn over something important – and forgotten. "Elsie, were you ever…" _Starving_, he meant to say but couldn't quite manage to work his mouth around the word and get it out properly.

She knew what he meant to say. Her countenance shifted: softening, vulnerable, and solidifying before Charles could blink. "Starving? No Charles, heavens no."

He could breathe easier. What a relief. What a blessed relief.

"My family was very poor," Elsie continued carefully, "Make no mistake we did without luxury, but we never went hungry either." She sniffed. Shoulder blades drawing back and together, chin raising ever so slightly. "But I have never starved in my life."

It was moments like these, when she went tight-lipped trying to circumstance his concern, that Charles felt an inexplicable urge to wrap her up in something warm and protect her from the world's ills. If Elsie would let him, but Charles doubted she would tolerate such mollycoddling for a moment.

_Stubborn woman._ Not that that dissuades his feelings; those fool's dreams that remained still surfacing up from the depths of his mind to play his heartstrings. Charles' appreciation for Elsie could extend no further than stern boundary line between friendship and….romance. He could not act infatuated, besotted, or overtly affectionate. He doubted very much that she would allow it, and the butler formally walking out with the housekeeper, showing her the full extent of his feelings, to the best of his knowledge, it had never been done.

"It's fine, Charles. It's past now." Elsie's voice was soft yet firm.

Charles wished to ask her more, yet did not want to risk upsetting or disturbing her either. He was disturbed enough by the mere notion that as a child she might have gone without. Raised by his mother, grandmother, and aunt, he never wanted for anything as a boy, except perhaps a father. "What are you knitting?"

Elsie lifted a finished bootie from her basket and handed it to him.

"Baby booties."

"My niece, Ailish, is expecting her first." She grinned rather wickedly. "I'm trying to convince them to name the baby Elsie if it's a girl."

Carson turned the soft knit baby shoes over in his hand. "Shouldn't they be pink if they're meant for a girl?"

"Obviously, if Ailish and her husband knew for certain what she was having they'd be pink or blue. As medical science has not advanced that far, it fell to yellow or green yarn and the shop was out of the later."

"It's very small. Can't be much bigger than my big toe."

Elsie shook her head, amused. "Well what do you expect?"

_Yes, Charlie, what do you expect? _

~o~O~o~

Hours later, huddled under two thick blankets in the center of her cold bed, Elsie tossed and tuned, unable to find sleep or even a comfortable position. Charles' inquiry into her childhood, gentle and caring as his questions were, startled Elise somewhat. In his concern, he'd brushed perilously close to a vessel of dark memories, which Elsie takes great pains to surpress.

Rarely, was she actively secretive with Charles but he could never know the truth about her childhood. How unhappy, how hungry, not unloved but not cherished.

It would not do Charles any good, she reasoned. It would be even less beneficial for her to take out and examine the memories (her parents fighting, her father's pitiful skills as a grower, her mother's drinking). She'd thrust them to the back of her mind; imprisoned them alongside her more than platonic feelings for Charles, denied how deep her affection for him ran, ignored the ugly truth of her origination.

A child out of wedlock! Elsie was not just conceived outside the parameters of marriage but born without the security of it. A stigma attached itself to her name. As a young woman, the boys thought her 'loose,' though she tried to keep her head down and her nose clean. Any opinion, any action was scrutinized because she was_ that_ woman's daughter and wicked behavior, apparently, inheritable.

Agnes Nevin and Gillis Hughes never wanted each other – oh, they did but never wished to marry. It was only supposed to be a quick tumble in the hay, a simple good time, but Elsie had come along, unforeseen (a mistake, her subconscious hisses), and eventually the young parents were forced into wedlock by Elsie's maternal grandfather.

_It does no good dwelling on the past now._ Elsie reminded herself, sternly, throwing the blankets off of her legs and reaching for her dressing gown. She wasn't going to sleep tonight without a little assistance. Wearily, she made her way downstairs for a glass of warm milk, surprised to find the kitchen light on.

"Charles?"

He was standing at the stove, dressed in pajamas and a dressing gown, smiling tiredly. "Couldn't you sleep too?"

"Apparently not, I thought maybe some warm milk might help but then I remembered we're rationing the dairy." She crossed the room to stand besides him; his eyes were heavy, a faint touch of shadow spread across and beneath his chin.

"I picked up some tea in London."

"Your stocking your own private supply?"

"Precisely. Would you like a cup?"

"If you don't mind."

The expression on his face told her he did not, and she watched his hands as they lit the burner and filled the kettle. When that became too much she played with the sleeve of her dressing gown, absent-mindedly pulling on a loose string. Really, the thing was getting rather worn.

"I'm sorry if I was," Charles cleared his throat, gazing around the kitchen as if he hoped to find the words written above him on the ceiling, "Too personal tonight."

"Oh, no," Elsie said, mildly horrified. "You weren't. I was a bit short with you, I'm afraid."

Charles smiled; his eyes seemed much lighter. "You weren't."

Elsie sniffed, feeling a wee touch of guilt for not telling him. She was not lying, just withholding the truth, a painful truth from a good friend. Wasn't she supposed to tell Charles? Slowly, every word carefully formed, she confessed. "Charles, I lied."

~o~O~o~

Ethel Parks was rounding the corner. She couldn't sleep; she needed something, a cup of warm milk perhaps. It was positively glacial in the servant's quarters. How was someone supposed to get their beauty sleep if they couldn't, well, sleep? The light was on in the kitchen, people were moving around, talking in lowered voices.

She peered around the doorframe: Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson stood at the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil. The housekeeper's back was facing her; her voice was small and nearly plaintive. Certainly a tone of voice Ethel never thought she'd hear from the wretched witch's lips.

"Charles…I lied."

Mr. Carson (he had a first name?) frowned. "Why?"

"I didn't want anyone to know the truth…"

"Even me?"

Goodness, who knew Mr. Carson – _Mr. Carson_ – could ever look so soft. He was almost sad, Ethel thought, for the housekeeper.

"Elsie, you can speak to me about anything."

"I know that! Mrs. Hughes cried, than much softer added, "I do."

If Ethel had this tone directed at her, she'd be running for the hills. Mr. Carson, however, stepped forward, picking Mrs. Hughes hand from her side. "So you did…"

"My father was a lackluster farmer." The housekeeper sniffed, raising a hand to her nose. "My parent's did not…get on really. Or maybe they couldn't, I don't know."

Mr. Carson stepped forward. Ethel felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as Mrs. Hughes began to cry, her sobs undramatic and soft. She was even more shocked when Mr. Carson wrapped both of his arms tightly around her shoulders. Mrs. Hughes stiffened, Ethel expected her to push Mr. Carson away, and then relaxed against his chest.

The butler's hands smoothed across her upper back, rubbing wide soothing circles into shoulder blades. "Is that all?" His gruff voice was impossibly tender.

Mrs. Hughes nodded.

"Elsie…"

"Well, my mother drank quite heavily at times."

"Oh, my dear."

_My dear? _

"She passed in and out of sobriety." Mrs. Hughes lifted her face, wiping her face with the sleeve of her robe. "Mine wasn't a happy home."

Ethel snorted. _Obviously. _

"I'm sorry."

The kettle whistled. Mr. Carson removed it from the burner and fixed two cups of tea. Not fair, they were supposed to be rationing things like tea. Mrs. Hughes chided her earlier for using two lumps of sugar instead of one. Ethel watched them pull chairs out from under the giant counter in the center of the room.

"Now," Mr. Carson murmured, "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Now Ethel could see Mrs. Hughes face. She examined her fingers, wrapped around the handle of the teacup. "They didn't really want to marry one another – my parents. It was only supposed to be a…" her decimal rose, she was laughing, self-deprecatingly "…quick tumble in the hay, if you'll pardon my crudeness. They would never have married if my mother hadn't…I was not supposed to…" She gave a little shrug of her shoulders.

Mr. Carson's smile was sad, understanding. "I'm sorry."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Ethel wondered for how long two people could do that, sit quietly and stare at each other. Finally, Mrs. Hughes sighed, forlornly, "No one ever actually told me I was a mistake -"

"Don't say that!" Mr. Carson exclaimed so loudly Mrs. Hughes jumped. "Elsie, don't you ever -"

Mrs. Hughes drew back, surprised. "Charles Carson!" She hissed. "Keep your voice down, for pity's sake! I don't want anyone else knowing."

Mr. Carson paused, glancing about he seemed to realize where they were. "I'm sorry," he said, sheepishly.

"That's quite all right."

"Don't think on it."

"Think what?"

"You're not a mistake," Mr. Carson told her seriously.

"I know that," Elsie assured him, "Well, I know that _now_."

Ethel watched, fascinated at the vulnerability etched in Mrs. Hughes eyes, displayed in the slightly curved line of her back. Mr. Carson picked up her hand again. "I cannot envision my world without you in it."

Mrs. Hughes blushed, furiously. "Charles…" She cleared her throat. "Thank you, Charles. What a kind thing to say." She took a sip of tea, breaking eye contact. Mr. Carson shuffled his feet. He was glancing at her in just the way romances described the hero when his eyes fixed on the heroine.

Oh, no.

No.

Mr. Carson couldn't fancy Mrs. Hughes. The very thought was comical! Ethel's face scrunched into an ugly expression of disgust. Her gossiping brain spun and twisted, the little organ working overtime as she slunk off to bed, picturing how she could use the scandalous information – the butler so obviously fancies the housekeeper – to her advantage.

~o~O~o~

They'd been quiet for several minutes before Elsie spoke, her eyes still over bright, luminous with pent up childhood hurt. No wonder, if he'd been in her shoes. "You know, I've never told another person."

"I'm honored to be the one you confided in." Carson felt a rush of pride, and worry. How long had she kept this locked inside of her? Her words of a few months past came back to him: _"__I do a rather good job of keeping things bottled up, I suppose."_That could never be the case again. If they were destined to just exist as friends then he wanted to do a proper job of it.

The poor man had no way of knowing that as he thought all of this, Elsie was gazing at him, a desperate aching in her heart. Because he was such a fine man, and years ago when they had just been Charles and Elsie, second footman and head housemaid, she should have done something.

"Charles."

Her voice called them both back to the present, to reality. They were at war, and too old for such a romance, and their friendship too precious to be risked.

Elsie's hand was cool on his face. She brushed a stray piece of hair away from his brow. For a moment her hand paused on his cheek. "You are my dearest friend."

His throat was dry. "And you know, you are mine."

"I'm glad."

Her hand dropped back, folded in her lap.

If he only knew, Charles would have taken her hand. He might have dared a kiss, taken Elsie's mouth with his, pulled her close and made her know that her existence was not a mistake, erase any doubt, however subliminal, from her mind, make her know just how much she meant to him.

**tbc…**

* * *

**a/n:** I had immense fun writing this chapter (especially the Carson/Hughes bits), and hope that it shows. Coincidentally, those were also the bits I was most worried about writing.


	15. XIV Lucky Ones I

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XIV. Lucky Ones (part I)**

_Loos, France_

William's feet sink into the mud, submerged and immovable the second after he vaults over the edge of the trench with the rest of the charge.

Matthew is somewhere else, further down the line. Ever the natural leader, he offered himself up to something classified. Major Campbell hinted there might be a promotion for anyone who tendered service. The men are hoping there is a great secret weapon lurking behind enemy lines, equipped to win the battle.

William is unambitious, apart from wanting to be first footman. He does not want to distinguish himself in the army, he does not want to be singled out for reward; he wants to keep his head down and his nose clean (as is possible in a trench) and live.

As William did now, quite successfully, the men to his left and right falling in the instant that William drops to his stomach

Dead.

Mud rapidly encompassing their bodies.

_God preserve me. God preserve me. God preserve me. _

He inhales a mouthful of sludge, coppery and clayish. He coughs, spits; snorts the dirt from his nose, rubs it out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Overhead bullets rip the air. William breathes in and out, slowly, quieting his heartbeat, waiting for the most opportune moment to jump up again and reenter the fray. The air filling his lungs is virulent, like mustard gas, but worse somehow. Unconsciously, he clutches his rifle tighter. Above and around him, men cough and splutter, the horses in the Calvary whinny, a high-pitched frightening sound chills William to the bone more than anything else. _Danger, run_, all of his instincts urge at once, an inward cacophony.

The clouds above are suddenly obscured by a billow of green and black. He can't breathe; he chokes, head spinning underneath the sulfuric surface of the air. The inborn sense to run takes over. Flight – through the haze William flies, aware of men screaming and trying without success to escape. The world is being smothered, suffocated, yet guns still fire, grenades explode, men trip over mines and barbed wire in their haste to survive.

The ground falls out from under William's feet; he hits the trench floor hard. He's dazed and confused but it's easier to breathe down here; effluvium has not drizzled to the bottom. William crawls – rocks and metal scraping him – like a snake through the tree branches…fruit of knowledge…good and evil…what has man wrought?

Air quality deteriorates swiftly. William's lungs ache, the air is at once sharp and clogging. He slows, arms trembling, no longer capable of supporting his weight. He collapses, his vision blurs, his eyes want to close as exhaustion and a strange sense of peace passes over him, increasing the more he fights against it. _This is it…I'm going to die…I'm sorry, Daisy…I'm so sorry…Dad…_

An ethereal light cuts through the smoke. A figure shimmers before him, transforming, taking the shape of a woman –

"Mother!" William cries, tears spilling from his burning eyes.

His mother hovers before him, except she does not look exactly like his mother, at least not as he remembers her. She's not aged or sickly, for one; her hair is the light blond shade of her youth, curling around her delicate face, framing wild blazing eyes. She is clothed in a robe of flowing white, not the simple garb of a farmer's wife, like an angel. "William." She stretched out her hands as if to pull him up. "My William."

William reached for her – and the phantom of his mother disappears - fingers connecting with something soft, almost like fur.

Matthew Crawley lay before him, spread eagle on his back, eyes closed, a gas mask grasped in one hand.

"Matthew! Matthew!"

An eyelid flickers –William is sure he sees it. A finger twitches. Frantically, body shaking from exposure, William grabs the gas mask and lifts it to Matthew's face.

He comes to gradually. William hears himself cry out as Matthew's upper body jerks and he begins to cough. Relief is piercing. Trembling with exhaustion, William lays down, trying to breathe through his nose.

Matthew touched his hand, pushing the mask into it. He wheezed, sputtering, splotches of vomit dot the area around his mouth, "We have to take turns."

They stayed like that, huddled close to the floor of the trench one gas mask to the two of them, covering themselves as best they can while they pass their lifeline back and forth, all night. Later they would marvel at how they survived when the field medics wondered down seeking those left alive in the carnage.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, too weak to move and tempted not to mind it.

"Nothing but stiff ones down 'ere, Gibbson."

Matthew's mouth opened, moving in the shape that configured words, the effort produced a hoarse, hard cough. Spittle flew in William's face; foaming at the corner's of Matthew's mouth.

The voices were moving away – voices growing softer in the distance.

William tries to lift his head, while Matthew fights within his body to speak, wanting to gaze out into the distance. There lay everything he loved and cared for. There lay everything, and something deep inside of him told him that it was in reach. If he just –

Matthew inserted thumb and index finger into his mouth, pushed his lips around them, and blew. The piercing whistle drew William back with a rush; he brought his hand back to his side, at some point he must have raised it, stretching above him towards the sky.

~o~O~o~

John's letter is burning a whole through Anna's apron, she's sure. She can feel it there, the bulk of pages against the lining of her pocket, John's warm words scrawled in big looping letters across the pages.

…_As I lay awake at night, waiting for sleep to come to me, I imagine how it can be and how it will be someday…_

…_You beside me, and someday our children in the bedroom next door... _

…_I've spoken to his Lordship. He doesn't think there's enough of a reason for either one of us to leave our posts after we marry. He says he can make arrangements, work something out. He asked me if you'll want to continue in your post once children come along. I told him that I didn't know. What would you like? Of course, there's time to decide all this…_

Anna giggled, unable to maintain a somber attitude. People did not smile during wartime it wasn't fitting somehow. It was something she had noticed in London. From people on the street to the gentry in the ballroom no one smiled – much – and when they did it looked strained and if they laughed they appeared instantly guilty and wrong footed.

How could Anna not smile when the man she loved wrote so often and with so much devotion and described their future, the future that he dreamed of sharing with her and later – Anna's smile grew – their children?

Of course in her hands was a mop and a bucket. The front hall needed to be cleaned and her chores needed finishing before Anna indulged in John's letter and the blissful picture it conjured. Mrs. Hughes was turning a blind eye, for some reason best known to her, but Anna knew the housekeeper would interfere if she slacked off.

~o~O~o~

Her back aches and her neck pains whenever Sybil tires to turn it left. Memory burns with the stress and strain of the day, and she's less immune to this than she used to be. Every time Sybil thinks the veil of naivety must at last have lifted something proves her wrong.

She's gaining weight; she doesn't want to go home. It's odd that these two things are connected; Sybil's happy for Edith, she's overjoyed, but shopping for a new dress to play the part of a doll for whichever man is going to be flung at her seems trivial. There is a war on, men are suffocating in this hospital with blackened lungs, and blistered skin; the stumps of arms and legs hacked off in field hospitals, the eyes blinded from gas. There is a revolution in Russia and women still do not have the vote, and the last two things make her think of Branson. Dear, sweet Branson who understands that she can love her job – and hate it too.

"Nurse Sybil."

"Yes." She lifts her gaze from the window, a new girl, Georgina Harp looks shyly at her, diminutive in the wide doorway of the nurse's lounge.

"Dr. Wyatt wants you. New batch of 'em from the front."

"In future, Junior Nurse Harp," Sybil said, pushing herself out of the chair, "Refer to our patients as men or soldiers – they are not a batch of anything, they are human beings."

Harp trembled as she passed – Sybil felt it. "Yes ma'am."

The triage area is filled with stretchers. Sybil skirted around Dr. Wyatt and Lucy, fastening a tourniquet to a man's arm, on her way to an unattended stretcher. "Corporal Mason, W. Yorkshire fifty-third. Smoke asphyxiation, temporary blindness, sprained ankle – left, right arm broken…"

"My Lady."

"Yes, Corporal Mason?"

"Lady Sybil…" her patient murmured, his voice hoarse from coughing. "It's me, My Lady. I used to serve at Downton…I used to wait the table," he murmured, half delirious.

Sybil lifted her head, peering into her patient's face, pushing back hair heavy with mud and blood; William flinched, it was him, under a mess of mud and dried blood. "William!"

"I told them on the front I was fine," he murmured, "It's good to see you, My Lady. I'm sorry…that was impertinent…I shouldn't be addressing you…Mr. Carson wouldn't…"

"Nonsense!" Sybil admonished. "I don't mind you addressing me in the least. On the condition that you call me Nurse Crawley instead of Lady Sybil. And it's good to see you too, I wish, under different circumstances that is, nevertheless," Sybil grinned. "You're going to be all right – I just need to clear your lungs. Tell me how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Five."

"Close your left eye. Now how many?"

"Three."

"Very good, William!" Sybil cheered, "You're doing brilliantly! Can you remember how to lay a table for a banquet? I want to make sure your memory's still decent."

William recounted the steps.

Sybil beamed. "The only problem are your lungs." She marked his tag as less critical. "Rest easy, I'll cheek in on you later."

"My Lady," William called as she got up, "Matthew – Mr. Crawley, I mean -" He broke off into a fit of coughing.

Sybil's eyes widened. "He's here?"

~o~O~o~

_Darling Tom, _

_London grows colder by the hour, it seems. The winter wind will soon rail against the rooftops, knock away broken slates and ebb it's way between the wall and the window pane. This morning I woke to a smear of frost across my window and as I tried to peer out of it I could not help but think of the future. _

_The war will end and that day cannot come soon enough, but I know peace will steal any and all of my independence. There is so much I hope for, and so much that I fear will come to pass. _

_In Anxiousness,_

_Your Sybil _

~o~O~o~

Robert stood in the large shadow cast by two sets of imposing doors. Conscious that for once he was standing slightly behind Bates, unsure of how to proceed, and feeling very nervous. The wide room before him barren and empty, grand staircases with its hundred steps curving up within the hall of healing all seemed impossibly daunting. Or maybe that was the task at hand.

Bates had gone over to a table placed away before the doors. The woman sitting behind the polished surface wore a coat and scarf to protect her from the creeping draft. Her face was round with the plumpness of youth, in spite of this her features – eyes, mouth, barring – were old. The young did not remain so in war time; Robert was shocked every time he laid eyes on Sybil, he caught himself measuring her to the child she used to be and tallying the inconspicuous differences.

"Pardon me, Nurse," Bates said, "We're here to visit someone. I wonder if you might be able to direct us."

"Certainly," she replied, "Last name and rank please. In that order if you could be so kind."

"Crawley Corporal and Mason Corporal."

"Corporal Crawley is on floor three and Corporal Mason is on the fifth." She eyed the cane; Bates leant on it slightly, the plummeting temperature causing stiffness in his leg. "You can take the lift if you like."

Bates thanked the nurse. They crossed the hall, Bates' cane rapping against the stone floor, and entered the lift, standing facing each other as the space was small and could hardly contain their joined bulk.

Cousin Isobel sat in a chair halfway down the ward, obscuring the patient's face from view with her body. Robert's throat tightened and he straightened his shoulders.

Isobel leapt to her feet when she saw them. "Cousin Robert. Mr. Bates."

"How is he?" Robert demanded, trying to catch a glimpse of Matthew. Isobel shifted from foot to foot, Robert had the distinct impression that she was purposefully standing in his way. "Sybil said he was not too terribly injured."

Her expression froze, tensing. _Perhaps,_ Robert conceded, _he should have chosen his words more carefully._ "I don't think Sybil would have said that," Isobel informed him tersely, "Matthew's lungs are very weak."

The tightness in his chest became uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. Can I see him?"

Isobel shook her head. Her arms were crossed over her breast. "I'm afraid not. He's sleeping."

"I'll wait then."

"He's very tired. It could be awhile."

"I've cleared my schedule."

"Really, I – "

"It's all right, mother," Matthew called from behind her. "Robert, how are you?"

Robert stepped quickly around Isobel, her mouth half opened in protest. Matthew sat up in bed, the broad smile on his face did not quite reach his eye but he was whole and he was here. Robert clasped him on the shoulder. "I feel like I should be asking you that."

"I'll be right as rain in no time and ready to get back to work."

"Back to Downton?" Robert asked picturing Matthew behind a desk, safe in an office in Ripon or Manchester – London even.

"No." Matthew sighed, looking apologetically at his mother. "Back to the front."

~o~O~o~

The ceiling above William's gaze is stark. Cold. He feels so cold looking up at it. Lady Sybil told him that he was in shock, she sat beside his bed and held his hand in her smaller ones, and delivered this news kindly and gently, sweetening the experience with a piece of chocolate; Mrs. Crawley appeared concerned.

"William." Lady Sybil's smiling face appeared above him. "You have a visitor."

"Hello, William"

"'Lo, Mr. Bates," William said, pushing himself up. Lady Sybil took his arm and helped prop him up against the pillow. She pulled a chair up to the bed and left them.

Smiling, Bates sat down, resting his cane against the side of the bed. "How are you?"

Nervously, William fiddled with the sheets. He did not want to answer that. His mother had taught him to only tell the truth but now…"Fine. I suppose."

Bates shook his head. "That won't help. I know. I've been in a similar position to the one that you're in now. How are you really lad?"

"Mrs. Crawley suspects I have shell-shock. Still that's a whole of a lot better than what some men come back with," William murmured, softly after a moment. "I'm one of the lucky ones."

~o~O~o~

Robert and Isobel made their way down the corridor, walking sedately in the direction of the stairs; Mr. Bates trailed behind them at a respectful distance. All three faces shared a mien of worry, fear, and quiet desperation.

"I'm happy to see Matthew. Not under these circumstances, of course," Robert explained.

Isobel's mouth tightened incrementally. "I'm happy to see him too."

"I had a thought. Cora and the girls could come down to London for the remainder of Matthew's leave."

"I'm not sure that's a very good idea," Isobel said, her whole manner shifting from sorrow to fretful.

Robert frowned. "I don't see why."

Isobel took a deep breath. "I had a similar idea, but Matthew…"

"He doesn't want to see them. Or more precisely, he doesn't want to see Mary."

"I wish they would work this out more than anyone. Apparently, Mary held out an olive branch and Matthew snubbed her." Isobel unclasped her hands, she felt as if she was being slightly defeatist but given the circumstances she just could not help herself.

~o~O~o~

Matthew looked up from his paper when the man in the bed next to his whistled. Sybil was moving towards him, her usual cheerful smile in place. "Careful, that's my cousin," he barked at the man in the bed next to his.

"Do all of your cousins look like that mate?" The man demanded, eagerly.

He gave the vagrant a scathing look and said to Sybil: "You look like the real McCoy."

Sybil picked up her skirt, bobbing on the balls of her feet slightly. "That's because I am. I wanted to ask you if you fancied a little stroll outside in the garden?"

"It's less of a garden, I suppose," Sybil confessed once they were outside in a walled courtyard that divided the four walls of the hospital, seated on a low stone bench underneath a bent tree, the naked branches slopping low over their heads. The grass was frozen, and someone had taken the time to plant flowers in beds around the low wall but the blooms had succumbed to the cold.

"I'm not one to complain," Matthew said.

Sybil clasped her hand over her knees, fixing him with an inquisitive stair. "Now. Do you want to talk about it?" Sybil asked.

Matthew swallowed past the lump in his throat; behind his eyelids a Germany fell as a bullet ripped through his heart. "William…Corporal Mason and I do occasionally."

Sybil nodded encouragingly. "That's good. Healthy. That you can talk with someone."

"We mainly talk about Downton. He saved my life. And I saved his."

"Matthew…"

Matthew cut across her, shaking his head to clear the encroaching demons. "Tell me about your causes. How come women don't have the vote yet?"

Sybil stared down at her shoes and then up at the imposing structure of the building behind them. "I don't have any causes. This is my cause." She took out a piece of candy from her pocket. "Would you like one?"

"Thank you. Men coming off the front love chocolate."

"Why don't you want to see anyone else?" Sybil demanded.

"Anyone else, who?"

Sybil rolled her eyes. "Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about."

"I don't know how I would react," Matthew replied honestly.

"Do you have to?"

Matthew opened his mouth – and shut it. _No, I can't tell her that; she's still so young. Good people don't understand, they can't. _

"If you say they can come," Sybil began slowly, cheekily, "I promise to protect you from Mary. And Granny."

Matthew chuckled. "You're a braver man than I."

"Of course. I'm a woman."

~o~O~o~

_Dear Heart, _

_From Yorkshire the world is heating up and moving - without me. I feel pressure to strike out for myself. I thirst for action and clutch my independence all the tighter to me. _

_I think I may have found a way. My cousin has a connection with an Irish M.P. – Harold J. Deaglan. _

_If I can give you one piece of advice: follow your heart. Think of me when you are weary or burdened, as I think of you – your optimism and your passion – and the memory spurs me on. _

_No one can take your life from you – and for people like us life is intertwined with independence and liberty – unless you let them. _

_Love, _

_Tom_

~o~O~o~

"My Lord?" Bates asked tentively.

Lord Grantham sat at his desk in his small, cramped, cold office, his head resting despondently in his hands. "I was part of this scheme, Bates."

"We both were, My Lord. I agreed with you; it seemed a good idea."

"Fifty-thousand of our boys," Lord Grantham lifted his head, "Fifty-thousand of our boys all because the wind shifted and changed direction at the last moment. How do we live with ourselves? No don't answer that, I know you can't. No man can."

**tbc…**

* * *

**a/n:** The battle of Loos was an unprecedented military disaster. It was the first time the British Army used chlorine gas (the Germans first used it in 1914). 50,000 men died at Loos; the Germany casualties are estimated to be about half of that. The wind shifted towards the English lines rather then towards the German. To make matters worse, the gas mask supplied to the men had a malfunction so were ineffective and Germany shells hit the remaining canisters containing the chlorine gas and released it.

On a happier note, thank you to everyone who took the time to review. Sorry this chapter took a while to post; I had three midterms this week and my brain feels broken : (


	16. XIV Lucky Ones II

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summary:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XIV. Lucky Ones (part II)**

Isobel's footsteps echoed portentously back to her; she moved through the ward to her son's hospital bed, dreading what she might find on the small, uncomfortable, army standard cot, heart tightening in her chest with each step that brought her closer…but no, Matthew was fast asleep and fine; a broken rib or two, minor and repairable damage to his lungs, a concussion that had heeled itself by the time he reached firm English soil. Isobel released a breath she was unaware of harboring. Her son lay on his back, cheeks rosy with life, one arm draped over his face, soft snores ruffling the stripped sleeve of his crisp, clean pajama top.

She deposited herself in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs lining the walls at intervals, waiting for an injured soldier's kin to sit. It was a piece of furniture in which she prayed, supplicant every dusk and every dawn, never to sit and now Isobel settled in, resigned. A dim lamp glowed from its perch on the small desk tucked into one of the room's corners. Apart from the snores of the men, a mix of wheezing and steady breath, Nurse O'Reilly's pen scribbling across patient files was the only sound in the world.

Around midnight, Isobel's head lolling as she restlessly dozed, Matthew began to jerk sharply. Her eyes flew open, muscles contracting, blood pounding throughout her body. The reaction, one of epinephrine and primal maternal instinct combined, swift in response to the stress, was fiercely hard to control; so badly Isobel longed to reach out and shake Matthew awake, but the chance that he might settle back into a fitful sleep kept her still in the hard wooden chair.

Matthew twitched, dislodging his arm. Isobel knew a nightmare assaulted his mind before his face contorted.

Now she moved. "Matthew." Isobel laid a hand on her son's shoulder, shaking him. "Matthew, wake up."

"No," Matthew moaned. His eyes were open, but the beautiful blue was wild – unrecognizable. "No. No. No! I won't, you can't make me!"

"Matthew!" Isobel cried, taking him by the shoulders, throwing her weight behind the action, and pinning him to the firm mattress. He struggled harder, violently – Isobel slid sideways off of the bed and fell with tremendous force to the floor, sending the chair toppling over with a bang. "Nurse O'Reilly! I need help over here!"

Nurse O'Reilly sprinted over, seized one of Matthew's flailing arms and gave him a sharp smack across the face with her free hand, the sound of her palm as it made contact with Matthew's cheek ringing in the air. Isobel covered her face with her hands; the ringing was the prefect accompaniment to the desperate beating of her own heart. They had never hit him, Reginald and her, never raised a hand to Matthew as a boy.

With a jolt, Matthew woke, chest heaving, face shadowy white and slick with perspiration.

Panting lightly, Isobel pulled herself up, standing uselessly beside her son's bed. "Thank you, Nurse O'Reilly. I can manage now."

After a short, discrete nod and a, "Very good, ma'am," the other woman turned on her heel and marched back to the desk and the files. She left them in thick silence, quiet that made the hair on the back of Isobel's arms and neck stand.

Matthew wiped his face on his sleeve. "Here," Isobel drew out her handkerchief, "Let me."

Matthew turned his head away from the small cloth and her care. "I'm fine, mother. I'm not a child; you don't need to clean my face, I can do it myself."

"I'm well aware of that fact." Isobel gulped, each word hovering in the tense air around them. "You're adult enough, Matthew Crawley. Fully capable of cleaning your own face, and enlisting in the army during wartime."

Matthew opened his mouth, she saw in his face the arguer, the lawyer, emerging. Then he sniffed; his hand covering the beautiful blue eyes Isobel had loved since his infancy, the moment Reginald laid him, newly clean and painstakingly swaddled, on her breast and Matthew gazed up, tracking her movements. They were Reginald's eyes. But Matthew was not his father. He never liked anyone to see him cry, even her, even as a child.

Weak at the knees, Isobel sank down onto the bed, taking care to perch herself on the edge. "Matthew," she whispered lovingly, guiding the hand concealing his face to his side, holding it in her lap and squeezing it tightly. "Nightmares are common in soldiers."

"War is not meant for those who know their conscience of their maker," Matthew rasped, teeth clenched, muscles in his jaw convulsing mouth trembling.

Isobel reached out, smoothing the damp hair off of his sweaty brow. Matthew flinched, for a fear-filled second, Isobel thought he might turn away from her, but instead he lent into her touch, wrapping his arms around her waist as Isobel lifted her own to his shoulders. He allowed her to draw his trembling form into an embrace – pillowing his head against her shoulder – and stroke his back, making soothing sounds, her mother's heart tender in her breast. It would beak if he were not alive and so physically able: there was hope.

~o~O~o~

Charles' days were becoming somewhat like a dream, one he wanted desperately to remember, to commit to memory so he might forget the feelings his days left him with, but no matter how hard he tried the foggy, muddled remains eluded.

He'd misspent a whole week trying to recall the exact feel of Elsie's head, the soft hair and the gentle weight, as she cried into his chest. Vividly, Charles could recount their conversation, her whole heart wrenching confession, yet the sensation of her hand in his, her shoulder blades quivering under the palms of his hands, his awareness of how delicate and small the bones were as Elsie trembled through her quiet sobs. The physical impression was pallid in his mind leaving a perforation in his conscience.

Charles was completing his afternoon rounds, when he heard the telephone ring and swiftly directed his feet to the ground foyer. He picked up the machine's receiver, glaring at it disapprovingly. "Downton Abbey. This is Mr. Carson, the butler, whom may I ask –"

"_**Carson it's me, Lord Grantham." **_

"Good afternoon, My Lord." Mrs. Hughes passed in the corner of his eye and froze. Charles read the question in her eyes even at a distance: _is it bad news and what in heaven's name happened?_

"_**Yes. It is a very good afternoon, very good indeed. Is Lady Grantham home, I need to speak with her. It's rather urgent." **_

Mrs. Hughes fetched Lady Grantham. The two senior servants made their way to the back stairs to preserve their employers' privacy. Charles repressed the small jealous surge welling up inside him; Lady Grantham's eyes had lit up as she took the two pieces of the telephone from him, her Ladyship's unchecked heat glowing in her face, it did not seem fair that some were free to love and other's weren't.

"I don't know," Charles told Elsie before she could ask.

She gave him an incredulous look.

"His Lordship said it was 'urgent?'"

"That can mean any number of things," The housekeeper retorted as side by side they began to descend the stairs.

"What was I supposed to do? Keep his Lordship on the line and interrogate him until he…" Charles trailed off.

Elsie had stopped walking and now stood several steps above him, arms folded across her body, giving him a look that would have sent him scurrying if he had been one of the maids under her jurisdiction. "Is everything all right, Charles?"

He lied. "Of course. Why would anything be the matter?"

"You've been a wee bit testy lately. For a start."

Charles held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired."

She eyes him skeptically, for once gazing down at him rather than up. "That is your defense when you don't want to talk about something, or aim to put me off asking." Her face softened and something in the structure of his windpipe got smaller.

"Ask me later then," he replied softly. "Because you know and I know," Elsie picked up her feet until he stood on the same step as he and they were on slightly more even footing, "That I'll tell you whatever it is eventually."

She looked up at him, for a moment Charles fought not to close his eyes under the concern of her gaze, afraid she might see _it_ in his eyes or in his face or in his bearing, the way he pulled is shoulders back. "Very well, then," Elsie sighed. "But don't think I'm pleased, Charles Carson, merely placated for the moment."

They continued downwards.

"Why do you think his Lordship telephoned?" Elsie asked, curiously.

~o~O~o~

"Hello, Robert," Cora smiled into the mouthpiece, twirling the black cord around one slender, painstakingly manicured finger. "This is an unexpected surprise."

"You know when you use that tone I can tell you're smiling." On the opposite end of the line, a broad grin split Robert's face and the cloud of guilt that had hung over him for days. "I've made you happy."

Well," Cora cast her gaze around the hall, but no one was about and no one would intrude, Carson and Mrs. Hughes would see to that. "I'm a simple woman. Easy to please."

"My darling, I have lived with you for nearly twenty-four years, simple is something you are not designed to be. Thank goodness."

Cora rolled her eyes. "Why have you rung, Robert, it is somewhat disconcerting. Carson looked extremely worried."

"I told Carson is was urgent."

"_Oh_, Robert. Urgent can mean anything during wartime. You've probably given the poor man a dreadful fright."

"Oh, yes." She heard him exhale heavily.

"Robert, what precisely is urgent?"

What her husband said next nearly caused Cora to loose her hold on the telephone. "Matthew has turned up in St. Thomas, he's well," Robert added hastily. "He's well and in one piece. William is with him."

"Oh," Cora gasped, clutching her heart, "Oh, thank heavens."

"They're about to be discharged and they have a weeks leave. I had an idea, darling…"

~o~O~o~

Valise in hand, Matthew watched from a distance as Sybil handed William a small, green envelope.

"I've purchased the tickets for you. There was some change left over; I've put that with the billets."

"Thank you, My La – Nurse Sybil. Its very kind of you."

Her eyebrows shot together. "Do you feel all right? You're dreadfully pale."

William fumbled with his suitcase for a moment. "'M fine My Lady."

Matthew left the sanctuary of the doorway. He heard Sybil say quietly, "If it's a case of nerves that's understandable – no one can blame you for being anxious."

"I just," William sighed, the weariness in his face, the confusion of being suddenly back in a warm and civilized place, he was squinting slightly, the blindness had worn off but his pupils were small, shrinking away from the bright autumn light filling the room. "I just, I've change so much since I've last been there."

"We've all changed," Matthew said, voice cutting loud and clear across the ward. "Sybil for the better."

Sybil's face fell. "Matthew, please."

"He's right, My Lady." William spoke to the newly shined boots; Mr. Carson would not accept anything less than a spick-and-span appearance, William had said this to Matthew last night when, after shinning his own boots, he tried to clean Matthew's.

Sybil looked from one to the other, fiercely protective. "You don't have to go, neither one of you. If its too much -"

"No!" The exclamation burst from William who looked distinctly miserable. "You're family's allowing me to stay at Downton, and its very nice of them."

"William," Sybil said, her tone one of long suffering patience. "No one would think of having it any other way. Why are you so surprised?"

William mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like: "I'm only a servant," and Matthew knew he had to rescue him before Sybil got the bit between her teeth.

"Sybil, William and I are both grown men, if we did not want to go -"

"But you may feel obligated…"

"We had best be off," Matthew inserted, firmly. "You'll be joining us in a couple of days, won't you?"

"Yes." Sybil sighed, the cold rays of sunlight filling the ward making her look older than her nineteen years. "I couldn't manage to get more time off. Not that Granny understood when I tried to explain."

~o~O~o~

Mary had Anna dress her with more care than usual that morning, she doubted after everything that had passed between them that Matthew gave a fig about what she looked like. _Still, one must always try to look their best. _From the sympathetic glances both Carson and Anna kept giving her, Mary knew she must seem weak and pitiable.

Matthew could hate her, but pity her, oh, no, Mary would never allow it.

~o~O~o~

_Luxury on wheels_, Vera thought, as Branson drove the blue motor smoothly up the drive. To have so much spare. Branson was ill-disposed towards the Grantham's and their indulgences, he fancied himself a revolutionary, he could quote Locke and Voltaire and a dozen other dead men whom Vera had never heard of before and didn't care much about. She did not see how understanding various "philosophies" would help her, but a carefully spun alias – Gemma Kennedy – that was a useful thing.

Last night at dinner, Branson had demanded of the women, half rising from his chair, fists clenched: "Do you want control, true, undeniable control over your life?"

Mr. Carson had informed him, after ordering the Irishman to resume his seat, that _"the feminine sensibilities are more delicate and fragile than our own." _

"_So you disagree with me? You think women should not have a voice in the political structure that dictates the laws of the land? Statues that directly impact their lives and their livelihood." _

"_I_ think _it shows poor taste to discuss politics at the dinner table." _

_Branson replied, in a tone of even calm, "Well, I disagree with what you say, Mr. Carson, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." _

Branson was by far Vera's favorite after O'Brien, but all of them were too thick not to realize that Downton Abbey was ripe for the plucking.

The motor came to a halt, gravel crunched under the four tires. Ethel was nearly jumping up and down; throughout, the staff passed a tremor of excitement, it wasn't everyday the prodigal heir returned. Vera sympathized with them; she was excited too, it had been a long time since she'd seen her husband. A reunion would break the monotony nicely.

Carson strode forward to open the door. A silver haired man dressed in an immaculate tailored army uniform emerged, by the way he took her Ladyship's hand in his and kissed it this was obviously Lord Grantham. "Darling," he said as another man, younger with some unregimented good looks (_no wonder Lady Mary's stuck on him_) stepped down and offered his hand to an older woman, middle class by the cut of her coat and the style of her hat.

"Here he is," Lord Grantham announced proudly, "Our conquering hero."

Mr. Crawley smiled tightly but his tone was easy, "I don't know about conquering."

Lady Grantham came forward first, pressing a kiss to Mr. Crawley's cheek. "Hello, Matthew. It's so wonderful to see you."

"Under better circumstances. Of course," The Dowager Countess inserted, eyeing Lady Grantham smugly.

"Its very good to see you all," Mr. Crawley agreed, his gaze roving over a beaming Lady Edith, and finally settling on Lady Mary who appeared about ready to fly out of her skin.

A second man in soldier's livery was shaking Mr. Carson's hand, the butler rumbled something Vera couldn't quite make it out, and the soldier drifted over to the staff line up. _This must be the kitchen maid's beau, I wonder if he's half as silly as she is? _

A smile so broad just about broke Mrs. Hughes' face; she took the soldiers hands in hers: "Its good to see you, lad. It's good to have you back with us."

"It's good to be here, Mrs. Hughes."

From his post by the door of the motor, Carson looked on. The butler always seemed to be watching the housekeeper carefully out of the corner of his eye. It would be lecherous if his gaze was directed at one of the housemaids – _and why not, plenty of them were fair of face and slow of mind_ – not Mrs. Hughes.

Of course the romantic entanglements of the well heeled and the perversions of the butler were none as interesting as Vera's own husband and his starry-eyed whore.

John, suitcase in one hand, cane in the other, had rounded the vehicle, eyes roving the line, smiling as his gaze found Anna's – and then he froze, smile sliding from his adulterous face, and Vera winked.

_Hello, darling. _

~o~O~o~

Mary loitered behind long after she announced that she was off to bed, waiting until only Matthew remained in the Lady's Drawing room and now she edge cautiously inside, her mind whirling. He had been polite but detached throughout the evening.

…_If he has read the letter and he is purposefully snubbing me…if he has refused to open it…if he has thrown it away..._

Matthew accepted a fresh drink from Carson; the butler gave her a supportive look that helped Mary to fix her courage to the sticking place.

"Thank you, Carson. That will be all."

"Very good, My Lady."

"I won't bite," Matthew quipped once the door had shut behind the butler. Mary realized she had stood by the mantle, just staring at him for several tense minutes before he'd spoken.

She shook her head, "I certainly hope not." Mary sat on the edge of the chaise, trying her best to smile.

"I've been hoping that you would catch me alone."

"Were you?"

"I owe you a rather large apology. I've behaved abominately, you were trying to clear the air, I assume, I never got the chance to read your last letter."

Mary felt her face flush. "Oh, no – I -"

"I lost your letter. The one Carson gave me."

"Oh."

"It fell in the mud, you see," Matthew said sheepishly, gazing into the recesses of his drink, occasionally glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "I was too embarrassed to write and tell you that I'd been such a clod as to drop it."

"Well," Mary said, working her voice around the lump in her throat. "That's fine then."

"Please," Matthew began, looking at her squarely now. "May we be friends?"

"Of course," Mary told him brightly. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that he was oblivious of the truth.

~o~O~o~

Unable to focus on counting and adding and subtracting the numbers printed on the page before him in the ledger, Charles sat in his desk chair, reflecting on the day's events; Daisy and William approaching each other, nervous after so long apart.

"_William?" _

"_It's nice to see you, Daisy. I don't think I can find the words to describe just how nice." _

_Daisy stepped closer and cautiously William embraced her. _

Mrs. Patmore had cooked William's favorite meal for the servant's dinner – beef stew with carrots and potatoes – and insisted that he not only help himself to seconds but to thirds. The household was happy again, and unless he was very much mistaken, above stairs Lady Mary was rectifying the situation with Mr. Crawley.

The clearing of a throat brought him out of his stupor: Mrs. Hughes stood in the doorway, a hanger from which William's jacket hung held in her hand.

Charles had watched the tears gathering in her eyes as William stooped to better enfold Daisy in his arms, her expression both fond and wistful. He wondered if she was trying to remember what it felt like to be young and in love. Charles had been a young man once, never a young man and in love at the same time. He had never known the freedom and the blithe ease of such a state, his own love being wrapped and smothered in several constricting layers of duty, friendship, and propriety.

"I know William wants to wear this when he visits his father, can you see that he gets it?" She asked rather briskly, and he knew that she was still upset with him over the comment he had made at last night's dinner.

"Certainly," Charles took the hanger from her. "Elsie -"

"Do I appear fragile to you, Charles?" She demanded tersely, eyes flashing.

"Of all the words I would use to describe you, fragile is not one."

She sighed; he could feel her anger giving. He suspected that she would never understand that it was a man's duty to provide care for the woman in his life; a husband worked to provide and to shoulder the brunt of the world's ills. Not because she could not cope, or because the greater members of women could not cope, but because taking care of…of her in small, secretive ways was a responsibility that he took most seriously.

"Well," Elsie said, "I'm turning in."

"Good night."

"Good night."

Charles glanced back at the account book, shook his head, gave it up for a lost cause and headed up to the men's quarters to give William his jacket. Charles knocked –several times – but received no answer. Slowly he opened the door; the former footman knelt by the side of his bed, praying.

Charles heard him sniff and watched him press a hand over his face.

"William?"

"Mr. Carson!" William tried to stand up, but faltered halfway through the motion and gave him a sloppy salute. He wiped at his face, hastily.

Shaken, Carson waved him off. "Rest easy. Now, Mrs. Hughes has pressed your uniform jacket. She asked me to give this to you. She thought you might want to wear it when you visit your father."

William took the uniform, his hand trembled and his eyes were wet, the surrounding skin raw and swollen. "That's very kind of her. She's a kind woman, I've always said that. I appreciate you allowing me to stay here, Mr. Carson."

Carson listened to him ramble and wished that Elsie was here, she was so much better at this than him. "You can't think that we'd let you take a room in the village? Not when you've done so much to serve your country." Awkwardly, he put a hand on William's shoulder. "Are you - "

"I'm fine, Mr. Carson. I won't lie, I won't pretend it wasn't horrifying, but I'm better now." William rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand; wordlessly Charles lent him his handkerchief. "I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm home and I've still got all of me to show for it."

~o~O~o~

John's breathe hovered, white and vaporous, in the air around his face. "Why have you come here?" he demanded.

"I thought dear, sweet,_ innocent_ little Anna might want to know the truth, husband dearest." Vera smirked. "Though I'm sure you've seen to her maidenhood by now."

"I repeat, why are you here?"

"She's blond and so petite, and I'm sure she doesn't put up a fight." Vera stepped closer; John took a step backwards, his legs brushing the bench where he and Anna had spent many a happy moment; John closed his eye as Vera pressed herself against his body. _Don't think of her now._ "Why am I here?" She whispered in his ear, tongue flicking out to tease the lobe. John flinched, the capitulation caused Vera to laugh.

This was amusing for her, his discomfort was entertaining for her.

"Why, am I here? I'm here to destroy your life."

John grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip brutally hard in his madness, his desperation. "What makes you think I'll let you?"

Vera lifted an eyebrow, not cowed in the slightest. "You let me before. You went to prison for me. You're spineless, John Bates."

"I-I'm not," he ground out, jaw clenched, "I am not spineless."

Vera let closer, her eyes hungry and her teeth bared as if she meant to devour him. "Well, I'll just have to see this new and improved John Bates for myself. The cane's new, you were limping about the last time I saw you, but the leg wasn't this bad. Now, it's blindingly obvious that you're a cripple. How does Ms. Smith feel? Does it revolt her, the twisted flesh, the scar?"

"She hasn't seen it, and even if she had, she would not be revolted. She's not weak or vain, like you are, Vera."

"But you aren't sure?" Vera laughed again and John wanted to reach out with his hand and slap the taunting smile from her lips. She leaned forward as if she would kiss him, but at the last second she moved away from him, heading for the backdoor.

John sat down on the bench, shaking like a leaf, lifting one hand to his face. Weak, weak, he was a weak spineless example of a man. Five minutes alone with Vera and he needed a drink.

"John?"

He didn't looked up, he couldn't face her, she deserved…she deserved so much.

The bench creaked as Anna sat down beside him. She touched his chin, brushing her hand underneath his eye, catching the moisture there. "What's happened?

"I'm sorry, Anna. I'm so, so very sorry," he saw her frown, confused, blessedly innocent of his wife's presence, of the true him.

"Why are you sorry? I don't understand."

"She's here."

"Who?"

"My wife."

**tbc…**


	17. XV Truth Telling

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summary:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XV. Truth Telling **

_October 30, 1915_

Blood pounded in Anna's ears, a hammering thump-thump-thumping that kept her moored in what a minute ago was her reality: Downton in dreary autumn, mid-preparation for Lady Edith's engagement party, William and Mr. Crawley restored to them, and John back with her if only for a short while. The wind whipped downward through the yard, stinging Anna's cheeks and causing her eyes to water as she looked at John, trying to reconcile him with the meaning lurking behind the words, she needed elucidation, reassurance to stop her mind from wondering down imagined pathways.

"What do you mean she's _here_? Surely, she can't be at Downton. I'd know."

"She's here. At Downton." His voice was flat, stony. John lifted his face, the epitome of forlorn, despair so strong it was palpable and disheartening.

"When did she get here?" Anna's voice wavered, curling outward intermingled with her white breath. They were both panting slightly and the air around them was a haze of exhalation.

Her question seemed to bring some sense of life, some sense of purpose, back to John because his shoulders tightened and his chin lifted, dislodging her hand from his cheek. "Anna, Vera has been parading about Downton under an alias. Gemma Kennedy."

"She can't be…"

John's mouth twisted downward, making an embittered scowl, a bitterness and self-loathing so deep Anna almost lost sight of her John, the John she knew and loved. But he was there (he had to be.) "I suppose she's been simpering, full of tales. Sorrowful tales."

"Not exactly," Anna murmured. "John, what are we going to do?"

"Press her for a divorce. What else?" He stood slowly, leaning heavily on his cane - the cold weather aggravating his knee – holding out his free hand to her. "Come. You'll catch you death out here."

"I want to be there when you talk to her – no. Don't argue with me, John. I'm all of engaged to her husband, I have to…"

"All right then." He let go of her hand so he could cup her face, pressing a kiss to her brow. "We'll do battle with the dragon together, aye?"

They had stopped just before the backdoor, opened a jar through which light and sound – the other's intermingled voices – drifted out. A shadow flickered, hinges creaked, and a warm, melodic voice chimed: "Dear me, I'd hoped that as your wife I'd be afforded at least some measure of kindness from you, John. Not school-yard name calling." Vera stepped into the light cast by a nearby lantern, her eyes settling on John as she spoke to Anna. "Of course, I don't expect any kindness from you Ms. Smith. Its my experience that a woman who preys on another's husband isn't kind."

"I'm not your husband, Vera," John spat, his lip curling up. He pushed forward a little, as if to shield her; Anna had never seen him look so angry, the hostility in his eyes, in the tightened muscles of his shoulders, was piercing, and Anna felt ashamed that she wanted to instinctually recoil.

"Not in the eyes of the law," Vera countered, laughing merrily, "Not in the eyes of God. You'll go straight to hell for this, John. That's what your mother always feared."

"You horrid creature," Anna heard herself hiss. "How dare you blame John for something you did."

The manic smile slid slowly from Vera's face, her eyes hardened, glinting, a predatory gaze that settled on Anna over John's shoulder making her blood run cold.

"Anna," John warned, "I can -"

"Something I did? What fairy tales have you been filling this girl's head with, John?"

"The truth," the words emerged strangled, splintered on the edge of his clenched teeth, Anna laid a hand on his shoulder, "That's not something you're familiar with, so allow me to sum up -"

"I think you should know the truth Anna." A broad smile lit their adversary's pale face, Vera's head tilted to one side, she looked insane. "The truth, husband dearest. How you whored around with every floozy you could find. How you drank away our hard earned money. How you brawled with any man who challenged you. Anna, did you know that my husband used to fight for money before he went lame?"

"Anna, let me explain," John begged, "It's not what it seems -"

"He'd use women then he'd come home to use me, reeking of the whiskey and the whores -"

"Shut up!" John cried. "You bitch! Shut the hell up!"

The backdoor swung open: Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes stood in the doorway, what appeared to be the entire staff behind them, gaping and giggling.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Carson demanded, his face red and furious.

"I think they've made that perfectly clear, Mr. Carson."

"That will do, O'Brien!" Mrs. Hughes snapped, the housekeeper had gone very pale. "Mr. Carson, perhaps we should finish this discussion in your pantry?"

~o~O~o~

With less dignity than he would have liked, Charles managed to extract himself from William, thinking that he would much rather have someone else offering him comfort than he. He could only stand there, awkwardly patting William on the shoulder, unable to think of how to respond to… _"I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm home and I've still got all of me to show for it," _and William's voice, steady and sane, without a trace of rancor as he declared this.

_Yes_, Charles thought, moving in the direction of the housekeeper's sitting room hoping against hope that Elsie might still be up and about, _But just being whole and alive can be a painful existence when one has been submersed in the crux of human savagery. _And that it was William, young and guileless, made it all the harder to bear.

Elsie was still awake, in spite of having bid him good night a quarter of an hour ago. She bent over her desk, writing on the small pad of paper she employed whenever she needed to remember to do something important. She glanced up, startled, as Charles barged into the room with what he imagined was all the grace of a charging elephant.

"Charles, what?"

"Good, I was hoping you hadn't gone to bed," he said, realizing now that he was a little out of breath. "It's William, he's rather upset."

Elsie straightened. "The war, is it." It was a bold statement not a question. "I'll go to him."

"Thank you. I'm entirely useless at this sort of thing."

"I wouldn't say that, Charles." Her eyes were sincere as they moved toward the door, a beautiful combination of green and light brown. Being in love was a painful existence too, when you could not breathe a word of it. "You've always been quite a comfort to me."

Charles followed her up the men's staircase. Once they reached the long, narrow corridor lined with bedroom doors he stepped in front of her, leading the way to one in the middle of the hall.

Elsie frowned.

"What?"

She pointed to the crack between the floorboards and the door. "There's no light," she whispered, placing a cautious hand on the doorknob and turning it quietly. The door creaked as it swung inwards, despite Elsie's best attempts to quiet the hinges.

The room was dark, Charles looked over Elsie's shoulder, straining his eyes to make out the jacket hanging on the outside of the wardrobe. William was tucked under the covers, apparently asleep.

"He's so young," Elsie murmured, a tremor in her voice.

Charles covered her hand, fingers clamping around hers and turning the doorknob, pushing the door in until it closed with another soft cry of the hinges. "Come," he urged, guiding her back down the hall, back down the stairs, and into his pantry.

Just a short while ago, William had been laughing at the table, filling them with stories – Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d'Triomphe – and Elsie had been cross with him. Now, Charles watched her worry her bottom lip, he reached out and took her hands in his, putting a halt to their wringing. These were nervous quirks, ones he found adorable and endearing.

"I'll never understand how we live in a world where this can happen," she told him.

"Neither will I," Charles agreed.

"I regretted never having children of my own for years, and now I'm thankful," she confessed, looking up at him, her lip still between her teeth. "To give birth to a babe, to love him and raise him, and then to send him off into the jaws of a beast, unable to stop it." She shook her head. "I can't imagine."

"You never know, you might have only had daughters," Charles tried, hoping to cheer her up, but any attempt he made at consolation seemed to be failing rather badly tonight as her frown deepened.

"Well, we'll never know, will we?" Elsie said softly.

"I'm sorry…"

"Oh. Don't be." Her grip on his hands tightened, Elsie smiled, a small expression that tugged – hard – on his heartstrings. They were standing perilously close together, almost as close as the night in the kitchen; Charles can feel the firm boundary between friendship and more, he can remember the feel of her head pressed against his chest, her shoulders beneath his hands. Unconsciously, his head tilted, his face lowering closer to hers.

"Charles," Elsie murmured, her tongue ducking out to wet her lips.

Slowly. He pressed his mouth to hers slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn her head or pull away, his hands wondering no further than her own. Her body tensed in shock, her eyes widened, and Charles pulled back quickly.

"Elsie, I'm incredibly -"

"What's brought this on?" She gasped, her hands fluttering before her like two pale moths. She touched her mouth with her fingers, tracing her lips.

"I couldn't...I thought you only felt..." Dear Lord, he could not even get the words out.

Her eyes widened further, her hand falling away from her face. "So, you've always...Charles, you never indicated that you might...All these years..." Elsie whispered, shaking her head. "I could have loved you back."

"You_ loved _me?"

Shakily, Elsie stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. Charles' hands grasped her waist, steadying her. "I _love _you, Charles," Elsie corrected, smiling shyly. "I love you."

An urgent knock sounded on the door. They jumped apart just before it opened revealing an anxious looking Mr. Molesley. "Excuse me Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, but I think you're needed."

~o~O~o~

They had both been about to crawl under the covers when Mrs. Hughes knocked on the bedroom door, apologizing profusely before informing them that there was a situation involving three members of his staff that required his attention. A few moments later, Robert stood before the banked fireplace in the library, the tension in the room was so thick he did not doubt that he could cut it with a knife if he was so inclined. Out of the five staff members gathered before him, only Carson seemed composed; Mrs. Hughes was ashen besides him, Anna had the distinct appearance of someone who had missed a step going down a flight of stairs, while Bates stared stoically ahead at the mantle, and the new maid – Bates' wife – cried silently.

"Well? Will someone please explain to me what is going on?"

Carson cleared his throat. "Approximately a quarter of an hour hence, Mrs. Hughes and I were alerted to the sound of shouting in the yard. When we went to investigate we saw Mr. Bates and Anna…and Mrs. Bates in the middle of a violent argument."

"It's my fault, My Lord," Bates said.

At his side, Anna came to life. "John -"

"Anna," Mrs. Hughes' tone was all warning. "What Mr. Bates means to say, My Lord, is that his wife started the -"

Bates interrupted her, murmuring, mild, dispassionate, "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, but I know what I meant to say."

"Mr. Bates," Carson rumbled, "In future you will address your superiors in a manner -"

"Thank you, Carson," Robert said loudly over the butler's reprimand.

Robert turned his gaze on Mrs. Bates. "I haven't heard from you yet, Mrs. Bates. I gather you have your side of the story."

She sniffled, mopping at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I do, your Lordship."

"Please, go on."

She glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye; Bates' mouth tightened, the corners turning downward, and she shifted away from him slightly, causing Robert to recall a suppressed memory: _the African sun beating down…a few bottles of liquor fished out of an abandoned Boer farm house…Bates, shirtless, and another soldier, pounding into each other with their fists…_

"I don't know what stories John has told you," Mrs. Bates said tentatively.

"Only one: that he went to jail for items you pilfered."

The woman's chin lifted. "There are two sides to every story, and you can almost say that John forced me to steal that silver."

"You vile creature!" Anna cried.

"Anna," Mrs. Hughes began but this time Robert cut her off.

"Thank you, Anna, that will do!"

"I needed money for the rent. It was the straw that broke the camels back. When John returned injured, he couldn't find work and we could not support ourselves on my earnings alone. He squandered most of my meager wages; on women and liquor."

"Yes," Robert said, "At least, I know that Bates has wrestled with the bottle and overcome an addiction that would swallow a lesser man."

"John?" Anna's voice wavered, she was pale and shaking.

Bates closed his eyes. "It's true. I was not a faithful husband."

"My god," Carson murmured.

"Well, what could I do?" Mrs. Bates asked, her voice rising in increments. "I couldn't stop his shouting at me every day and every night, I couldn't stop his drinking, I couldn't stop him rutting his way through London. I wasn't about to loose the roof over my head."

"But why come back now?" Robert asked.

"We were happy before, childhood sweethearts. I've never stopped loving, John. And now that he's a changed man, I thought we could…sweetheart…darling…" and she reached out to him, putting her hand on his arm. A shudder passed through Bates; his eyes opened, they were blank as an unpainted canvas and as unemotional.

"Well that will be up to you and him to reconcile. That's none of my business. You could not have sorted this out yourself, Carson?" He felt suddenly very tired and very old. And betrayed by Bates' actions, he had trusted him to respect Anna, not to lead her to disgrace and hurt.

"We've never had a situation quite like this before, My Lord." Carson said.

"That may be my fault, I gave Bates my blessing."

"It's my fault too," Mrs. Hughes confessed. "I knew Mr. Bates was paying court and I did not step in to enforce the rule. I'm sorry, My Lord."

~o~O~o~

Too much had happened tonight, Elsie decided. Mr. Bates…she could not quite bring herself to accept it yet, but it must be true. A year ago his honesty had almost cost him his position at Downton. Tonight, Mr. Bates had said nothing in his own defense, not when Charles demanded answers, not when his Lordship asked for the same account. He apologized without making an excuse or offering an explanation. If Mr. Bates was not contradicting his…his wife, then her story must be true.

Mr. Bates was an adulterer.

Elsie recalled the way Anna trembled, looking as if she might faint, and how Mr. Bates dislodged his wife from his arm as he reached for her.

"_Anna…" _

"_We'll have no more talk of this tonight," Elsie ordered as Lord Grantham moved to the door and Charles hurried to open it for him. _

"_Mrs. Hughes, if you have a minute I would like a word." _

"_Certainly, Mr. Carson." _

The door of her sitting room creaked open then closed announcing Charles' return from locking up. She turned when she heard the click of the lock.

"I don't want us to be disturbed," he explained and she knew he was remembering how Mr. Molesley had burst in, seconds earlier and he would have caught them in a compromising position. Was it really compromising though? They had done nothing more than kissing, and rather tame kissing at that. Charles had not tried to push his tongue into her mouth - so unlike those inexperienced kisses of her youth when the boys were eager and curious, but clumsy and a little too fast - his hands had gone no further than her hands and later cupped her waist.

"We have a lot to discuss."

"I know."

He took no liberties, Elsie realized as she met his gaze, nearly six feet above her own. It felt like the most intimate thing in the world. Wordlessly, she patted the space besides her.

Charles sat, a respectable distance away, but he took her hand in his. "I don't understand why I wasn't informed."

"Did you really not know?"

He sighed, leaning back into the settee cushions. "I hoped. I hope now they've at least been sensible."

An image of her mother, embittered from a forced marriage and a baby she had not wanted but was obligated to love, surfaced in her mind. "I don't think Mr. Bates' senses would have run out in the way your imagining with a ring being present on Anna's finger first."

"What are we going to do?"

"About them?"

"And about us."

"Is there an us?" Elsie asked, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs. Charles reached out, smoothing his hand along her jaw, cupping his hand around her face, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone as he lent forward and pressed a kiss to her hairline. Elsie wound her hand into the fabric of his jacket, keeping him with her though he seemed in no hurry to move away.

**tbc…**


	18. XVI The Storm and the Ire

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summery:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**a/n: **I'm incredibly sorry for the delay! I have not been idle; this chapter went through a few drafts and could have gene a few different ways, and though I'm not entirely happy with it, here it is.

* * *

**XVI. The Storm and The Ire **

The thin chain around her neck hangs like a noose, the small locket suspended from it resting heavily upon Anna's breastbone. The weight of her conscience fills her hand as she traces the curvature of the golden heart; her guilt, her frangible hope. Anna clings to the locket and her memories.

_...It comes with a promise, that the next piece of jewelry I buy you will be a wedding ring…_

Her chest throbs, the skin above the source of her pulse tender as if bruised. Other then that, though, Anna cannot feel a thing; detached from her chaotic emotions and the all-consuming wall of grief pressing in on every angle. The darkness, the coldness of the room, the storm lashing the house, Ethel's snores, and the remains of the palpable world fades away as intangible as the mist veiling her eyes.

…_As I lay awake at night, waiting for sleep to come to me, I imagine how it can be and how it will be someday…_

…_You beside me, and someday our children in the bedroom next door..._

Her cheeks are growing rapidly moist and hot; the dampness (is she crying?) flows from her eyes, over the bridge of her nose. Her tears taste like salt and mortality on her lips.

~o~O~o~

_John stumbles home – again - through a miserable drizzle. The grey and blue of the world running into the brick of their dilapidated building. Better neighborhoods have parks and green grass, limber tress, and flower boxes beneath windows; the children do not scamper after whimpering strays, beating the animals with sticks and pelting them with rocks. _

_These children jeer at him when he limps by, trying to provoke a curse, a temper, laughing when they manage it. _

_The stairs meet his feet, causing him to lose his balance. John can feel the soft skin of – what was her name?- and smell the sweetness of alcohol as he teeters on upwards. Wrestling with the doorknob, here the gossamer sheen of the night smudges, he drags himself through the untidy flat to the bedroom. Vera lounges on the bed, eyes half closed, dark hair mussed, her linen in disarray. John would bet the sheets were soiled. _

"_Six o'clock. I'm surprised you can last so long with that blasted limp." She props herself up on one arm, a slow, feral smile highlighting her Irish beauty. "Then again, I'm surprised when you can keep _anything_ up for long." Her hand ghosts towards his groin. _

_John grasps her wrist, bending it backwards. Vera gasps, eyes brightening. "How many men tonight, Vera?" _

"_What does it matter?" _

"_You're my wife!" _

_Vera shifted, the springs creaking with her weight, the neckline of the robe covering her sliding open, revealing. "They appreciate me." _

_The frail illusion of self-satisfaction that resides from the drink and whomever he had buried himself in earlier was being rapidly destroyed: Vera was winning. "They appreciate an easy fuck around," John growled. _

_That did it – that wiped the smile from her face, drained the debauched flush from her cheeks. She rose, wrenching her hand out of his grasp, arm pulling back. The blow rebounds off his chest; John grabs her, the robe around her body falling open. He pushes her down, she brings him with her onto the bed, knee protesting, world spinning from the drink. John's hands grapple with her body; Vera bites his lips, her nails rake along his back drawing blood, spurring him on. _

~o~O~o~

"I don't believe it." William said, incredulously. "I just don't believe Mr. Bates could do something so horrible. He's too good and decent a man."

Daisy watched his hands move agilely across the newspaper, carefully sliding the iron over the Times. His hands were fascinating, so large around the handle, yet his touch, so light and gentle. Daisy looked down at her own hands – half the size of his and caked with soot from lighting the fires.

"How can't you believe it? We heard it from her ourselves."

"I didn't hear anything, I was up in bed. Anyway, what do we really know about her?" William asked, straightening. He was much taller than she, it had not seemed so before the war. Maybe he had grown? "I'm not saying Mrs. Bates is a liar, I just don't think we can trust her when we don't know anything about her. How's Anna baring up?"

"I don't know. She won't speak to anyone, neither will Mr. Bates. They're both white as sheet it looks as if they've seen a ghost."

"Or the unquiet grave," William mumbled.

"What do you mean?" Daisy asked.

"It's an old song my granddad used to sing. It tells the tale of a man who mourns his dead love for so long it keeps her from finding peace."

"How does that apply to Mr. Bates?"

"William?"

They both jumped.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Carson demanded, standing in the doorway of his pantry.

"I-I'm ironing the newspaper, Mr. Carson."

"I can see that. Why are you?"

"I thought," William gulped, his back ridged like a tin soldier's, "I thought that you and Mr. Molesley had a lot on your plate this morning, so I offered to iron the papers and Mr. Molesley accepted."

Mr. Carson's face softened. "That's very thoughtful, William. Daisy, unless I'm mistaken you still have chores that need to be attended to."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." Daisy gave William one last smile before fleeing.

"Daisy!"

"Coming, Mrs. Patmore!"

~o~O~o~

A storm raged that night. Fat drops of rain pounding upon the windows whilst lightening burnt a fiery track through the sky and thunder roared in the distance. The storm perfectly expounds John's ire; alone and sleepless in his bed the self-loathing strikes, the insecurities tear, and the defeat belabors.

He thought he was a good man (_I was supposed to be a good man for her_). Anna had made him feel like one – sometimes he was even sure that he was worthy, almost – and then her eyes brimming with hurt…

Had John betrayed her by not disclosing his past? What explanation might he have offered? There was no comfort to be found in truth, the truth was stark and brutal and hard.

He rose the next morning with a bad headache and a panting heart. It was ironic: the person he wanted to see most in the world probably wanted nothing to do with him.

With this in mind, John squandered the early morning laying Lord Grantham's clothes out, not a difficult task when the day ahead was more or less the usual until the party. He wasted time investigating seams and buttons until the clock ran down and he had to face everyone (face her).

Mrs. Hughes is in the Servants' Hall, sitting in her usual seat, sipping a cup of tea, and Daisy skirts around the table laying dishes down. She gives a small squeak when she sees him and scampers off.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good morning, Mr. Bates."

John waits for her to say something more, but she never does. The housekeeper stares at the opposite wall, apparently lost in thought.

One by one the others trickle in. John tries to ignore the gawking, the conversations hastily muffled (O'Brien gives him a long contemptuous smirk but mercifully says nothing). Vera enters, her face a mask of faux misery, and sits down across from him. Unconsciously, his grip tightens on his teacup.

Finally, Mr. Carson appears and they begin to eat. John scanned the table for Anna but she was nowhere to be found. Mr. Carson's gaze drifted over to John then to Anna's empty seat; butler and housekeeper exchanged a meaningful look, Mrs. Hughes gave a small shrug of her shoulders.

_John Bates, what the hell have you done? _

He needed to find her, needed to make things right (what if she does not want you)? The knowing glint in Vera's eyes and his own cowardliness anchor him to his seat.

"What will you do?" Lord Grantham demanded half an hour later. He did not sound angry, just tired as if he to bore the weight of shame resting on John's shoulders.

John helped him into his jacket. What was he going to do? He knew what he would like to do. Take Anna in his arms and - come hell or high water - never let her go. But was it right? Her association with him tainted her now; last night he had seen all too clearly the disgust directed at her by the others as they tramped in from the hall. He is responsible for her ruination, wouldn't it be better if they had never loved?

"I don't know, My Lord." It was an honest answer, at least

"Bates," Lord Grantham sighed, "If I was in your position, I would feel duty-bound to make restitution. Whatever the cost."

~o~O~o~

In the corner of the dinning room, Mr. Carson could not sense the mortar cracking and the stones of life (as he knew it, as he liked it) weakening. That morning the bludgeoning fissions were indiscernible from the solid bedrock foundation that was Downton Abbey.

The family's extended relations filled the seats around the long table, enjoying a confabulatory breakfast, the men discussing politics much to the vexation of Lady Grantham and the Dowager Countess, while the women focused on the delicate task of the party which had began as a lavish celebration and ended up as a small affaire for close kith and kin.

Sir Anthony, seated across from Lady Edith, was proving himself to be a particular attentive fiancé, breaking off from his conversation with Lord Grantham and the Marques of Flincher to inquire in the gentlest of tones: "Can I get you anything?" and "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

Lady Mary rolled her eyes, and Mr. Crawley covered a smile with his napkin.

"Honestly," she whispered, in a tone low meant just for Mr. Crawley's ears. "He treats Edith as if she's some sort of invalid. I don't know how Edith can bare it."

"I think Sir Anthony means well."

"Maybe. If he behaves this way every holiday dinner - "

"As annoying as you find him, Mary - "

"Don't pretend you don't find him perfectly annoying, Matthew - "

"I don't dislike him. However, he is a bit –"

"Of a booby?" Lady Mary's eyes glinted mischievously. Carson's heart warmed at this show of spirit, even at Sir Anthony's expense.

"I was going to say dotty. Try not to ruin tonight for Edith. She's happy with him, we should be to. In a few months he'll be family."

"He's too tempting a target."

Charles turned his attention back to the table then the buffet, hurrying to remove an empty salver to the servery. He was finding it rather hard to concentrate after the momentous events of the previous night.

"_Is there an us?" Elsie whispers, eyes bright and luminous. _

_Rather than answer her with words, Charles reaches out for her. Not trusting himself to speak, he smoothes an unhurried hand along her jaw, cupping his hand around her face, thumb stroking over her cheekbone as he leans forward to plant a kiss upon Elsie's hairline. His heart is expanding in his chest, growing to twice its normal size in order to hold the emotions stirring inside of him._

_He can scarcely believe that he's touching her, that she's letting him indulge himself in the feel of her skin and her scent. She smells of lavender and something faintly coy; it tickles his nose as he plants a second kiss to the soft crown of her dark head, following it with a third, a fourth, a fifth because he's loved her for years, for as long as he can remember – and they should have done this years ago – and finally he gets to show her. _

_Elsie sighs, her breath titillating upon the hollow of his throat. One of her hands takes a firm hold of his jacket as if to keep him with her and prevent him leaving if he tried. There's no danger of that, Charles thinks solemnly. "Yes, Elsie. There is an us, that is, if you want, I would like there to be." _

"_Good." The adamancy in her voice is reassuring. "That night, in the kitchen, I felt like I should have done something – years ago when life was simpler. But…" _

"_Our friendship?" _

"_Yes. And then there is everything else to consider. Is this what's had you so out of sorts?" _

"_Do you think me very ridiculous for that?" Charles asks fearfully. _

"_Not in the least. I'm very glad – not that your feelings for me have been a source of discomfort – but I'm so glad. And, Charles, I've never found you ridiculous." Elsie lifts her face, lips curved upwards to meet her eyes; his heart contracts. Mesmerized, he runs his thumb along the smooth, pink curve of her bottom lip. She shifts closer, causing her knee to knock against his as her hands run up to his shoulders, fingers ghosting along the side of his neck. Her touch cautious, a bit unsure. _

_He hopes she is not counting up the snags, the hurdles. His first inclination after kissing her was panic and dread, that she loved him, that she was in his arms and smiling, seemed an impossibility. _

_Charles quells the urge to kiss her, concerned twice in one evening might be moving too fast for her. He turns the conversation from poesy to professional, resuming some of his butler's sedateness. "What are we going to do? About Anna and Mr. Bates?"_

_Elsie blinked, surprised. "I think that may be up to Anna and Mr. Bates." _

"_You cannot possibly think she'll take him back?" _

"_You know," Elsie said thoughtfully. "I can't bring myself to accept it, but it must be true. Last year, Mr. Bates' honesty almost cost him his position, yet it was a half-truth. Mrs. Bates was the thief, Mr. Bates merely took the blame." _

"_Still, Mr. Bates is not blameless." _

_Elsie frowned. "I know that. But it takes two to run a marriage into the ground. And there's something about the way Mrs. Bates acted tonight, something about the way she explained her version of events that I don't quite trust. Still, I'm not keen on sacking anyone. You can't deny we don't need the help."_

"_I shan't deny it." _

_They sit in silence for a few moments, the turn in the conversation has brought an expression of dislike to Elsie's face. Charles is filled with the urge to kiss away the crease between her eyebrows; underneath his lips her skin feels smooth and a little dry. _

_Elsie smiles; his heart lightens. The war and the world are faraway realties as her arms come about him, hands cupping the back of his neck, her mouth bold and decisive. Privilege turns quick to the tide of human passion; her mouth parts a little in invitation. Her waist fills his hands, against his tongue her teeth are smooth and small like stones deposited in a riverbed; nothing has ever been so euphoric as this closeness. _

~o~O~o~

Matthew's fingers itched, longing for the sweet inhalation of smoke. He kept reaching for the fags that were normally in his jacket pocket, his nails scratching against empty lining every time. His mother had confiscated them. She seemed to think they could damage his health; Matthew knew they kept him focused, curbed his anxiety so he could shoot straight.

There was frost smeared on his window when he crawled out of bed that morning and a fire – a roaring, crackling luxury – blazing in the hearth. Northern France was a blistering cold place, especially when you inhabited a trench within a stone's throw from the front. Until now, Matthew had not realized how benumbed he had become to it all. The nuances of civilization, a dry bed and a fat fire and a solid roof, these things would making it hard for him to return.

_Mary. _

The woman walking next to him on the path, smiling as she described what Edith's engagement party might have been, would make it impossible for him to return. "Sir Anthony had this ridiculous idea in his head. He wanted us all to duck for apples like children."

"It is his engagement party too," Matthew pointed out, to be fair.

Mary frowned, the drift of her mouth causing her nose to crinkle adorably and his heart to lurch. "So?"

"So. If he'd like to play a party game, shouldn't Sir Anthony be aloud to give voice to his idea."

"Not when it's a silly idea. Thankfully, Granny put a stop to it."

Matthew laughed, laughed then winced, pain surging up from his ribs into his chest.

Mary touched his arm, her fingertips light against the fabric of his jacket. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Matthew held a hand to his side. "It's my ribs, mother said I cracked a few."

"Here," Mary guided him over to the bench underneath the tree, their feet making squelching sounds as they contacted the damp ground. "Lets just sit a minute."

~o~O~o~

Robert watched from the library window as Mary and Matthew meandered through the grounds. He felt a presence behind him, a pair of slender arms wrapping around his waist, small hands clasping around his stomach. "They seem so natural, don't they?"

"Yes." Cora lent up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm leaving in a minute to meet Sybil off the train. Are you sure you won't come with?"

"No. She sees me at least three times a week. You miss her."

"I do. I feel like she's more grown up every time I see her. Always rushing about; it seems like I barely saw her during the season."

Robert turned in her arms, his hands coming up to cup her face. "They aren't working her too hard."

"Oh," Cora's tone conveyed a deeper worry, "I'm sure she doesn't mind it. I was wondering - and your mother brought this up - if she has any crushes?"

"Crushes? Dear me," Robert chuckled, "Isn't it enough one of my daughters is getting married? Sybil's just nineteen. "

"By the time I was nineteen, Mary was on the way." Cora shook her head. "Sybil's blossomed, Robert, she's not only beautiful, she's intelligent."

"All of our girls are beautiful and intelligent," Robert said protectively.

"I know." Cora stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek again before settling against his side. "It was just a thought. Your mother, Robert, trying to stir up a bit of excitement."

"As if the war wasn't enough excitement."

"Precisely. At least, Sir Anthony's friends seem nice."

"Are you playing the role of matchmaker tonight?"

"Not at all. But if Mary or Sybil takes a liking to one of them then so much the better."

"Oh, but if." Outside the windowpane, Mary and Matthew were sitting close together on the bench under the giant oak. "What do you think they're talking about?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure Mary and Matthew don't need a chaperone," Cora teased.

"By Jove, I wish they did."

~o~O~o~

"What would you have gone as? Andromeda?"

"Without a Perseus? No." Mary sighed and gazed out in the distance. "Maybe something that plays more to the image of female power."

"Minerva, then," Matthew suggested.

"In this climate I don't think the goddess of war is appropriate for a costume party." Mary turned towards him, her shoulders shrugging. "It doesn't matter now, I suppose. Edith wanted the servants to dress up too, in masks. Carson might have had to wear a cape."

"I'm sure Carson would not be adverse to that," Matthew replied dryly, Mary giggled. Her heart was both light and heavy; things were easy between them but – for her at least – the what ifs and what might have beens would always be lurking underneath the surface of their friendship.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," she lied. Why do you ask?"

Matthew shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"No. Tell me. Please." Did she dare to touch him again?

"For a moment you looked…sad."

Her heart lurched; her palm finding his forearm. The golden moment of physical contact, of something intimate, and deeper than themselves. "No. Merely thoughtful."

~o~O~o~

Tom waits on tenterhooks, glancing up at the garage door every other minute. He had met her off the train that morning. It had been like Christmas morning and his birthday all at once as the train clattered into the station, screeching to a halt, mahogany coat gleaming. She was more beautiful than he remembered as she stepped down from the train, wrapped up in a pale blue coat, eyes searching, drifting past her mother for his gaze, the smile coming to her face for him alone.

Lady Grantham had rushed forward to embrace her, while Tom, regulated to collecting the luggage from the porter, could only wink cheerfully behind Lady Grantham's back and open the door of the motor for her.

He wiled away the afternoon and the early evening by tinkering with the engine, scrubbing the car, and thinking of his cousin's letter and the opportunity it acquainted, the question he wanted to ask Sybil.

The garage door creaked; Sybil slipped inside, a large smile on her face.

Tom let out a long, low whistle, grinning from ear to ear. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"Stop." She glanced down at her frock. "This is years old."

"You're beautiful." Tom reached for her.

Sybil stepped into his embrace, eyes dancing. "Oh, go on."

He draws her to him, kisses her with all the repressed passion of the past ten months. Sybil's arms find their way around his neck, she presses her body flush against his, mouth moving with a fervent, surprising urgency.

"The moment I saw you in this I knew I liked you," Tom whispers, when their lips part. Lovingly, he presses a kiss to her forehead, searching for the right words as she leans into him, sighing. "Are you tired, love?"

What gave me away?"

"Just the look on your face this morning – happy but tired."

"I am." Sybil drew back a little to meet his eyes. "I'm exhausted actually, but it's good."

Tom took his time to kiss her slowly, sweetly, than harder, teasing her supple lower lip. "I've been making plans."

"You eluded to them," Sybil said breathlessly when they broke apart. "Tell me."

_Nothing ventured, nothing gained_. "My cousin Jimmy's found me a job."

"A job?" Her face fell. "Away from Downton?"

"It's in London."

Her face brightened. "Does this have to do with the M.P.?"

"Harold J. Deaglan. It turns out he's a friend of Jimmy's. He needs an aid, his former one was killed in the Dardanelles."

A sadness passed over her expression, he wondered if she was recalling the faces of the wounded she tended. "Do you have the job?"

"I have an interview. Mr. Deaglan has business in Manchester on the third."

She flushes with excitement. "I'll invent an errand for you. This is wonderful, Tom! It's a chance, a fighting chance to gain a foothold in politics." But there's an element of uncertainty in her voice.

He draws in a ragged breath, he's possibly more nervous than he's ever been in his entire life. "You know what question I'll ask you if I get the job?"

Sybil nodded.

"Will you think on it?"

"I have. All the while I've been away, I've wanted you with me." Sybil shivered, "I love you…but my family won't if they find out – when they find out. And that frightens me."

Tom rubbed her shoulders. "They'll come around. I believe that."

"And if they don't?" She moves away, grave. "Will your family accept me? I can't cook, I don't know how to clean or do laundry and sometimes I work all day and straight into the night."

"They'll accept you because I love you. That should be all that matters in this."

~o~O~o~

Matthew felt out of place in the drawing room, or more specifically around the men and women – most of them his own family – laughing and making light of the evening. It was a light evening, he reminded himself, and most of the people gathered were incapable of imagining the horror filled trenches.

Edith looked stunning, Matthew thought. Sir Anthony bobbing attentively at her side, plying her with sincere compliments and differing to her when the couple was asked a question.

_When will the wedding be? _

_St. Valentine's Day. _

He was not the only spectator observing the festivities from the sidelines.

"It feels strange," Sybil said, "Being back."

"Haven't you missed it?" Matthew asked curiously.

"Not as much as I should." Sybil took a careful sip of her drink. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who felt like a stranger.

"What do you think of your new brother?"

"I like Sir Anthony. He makes Edith happy. Oh, thank you, Molesley." The footman appeared at her elbow, holding out an empty tray for her empty glass.

Across the room, Mary flirted with a strange man – a friend of Sir Anthony's. Matthew could barely restrain the savage jealousy and longing surging up inside him.

"That's Sir Richard Carlisle." Sybil said, and Matthew realized that she was watching him carefully. "He's a friend of Sir Anthony's. He used to trump out some salacious magazine, but the war office has retained him for their propaganda department."

"Is he a close friend then?"

"I don't know. I do know that they want Mary to settle down – soon."

"Do they?"

"If it's not her, it's me." She sounded positively bitter about it, unlike her normally optimistic self.

"Don't you want to be married?"

"I do if I can choose the man."

Matthew changed the subject. "Mother says that Dr. Clarkson will be converting the village hospital into a wartime one. Will you put in for a transfer?"

Sybil froze, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth. After a moment, she shook her head. "No, I don't think I will."

~o~O~o~

Unexpectedly, their paths cross ways in the bachelor's corridor. One look at his face, pale and drawn, and Anna feels his suffering, he's suffering is part of her own.

"I'm sorry, Anna. I'm so sorry - "

She holds up a hand, eyes pleading for his silence. "Is any of it true?"

"Yes."

"Tell me there's more to the story." Her voice cracks. "That you're just being noble."

"It does not change what I did. I have sinned, Anna, I have broken my marriage vows," she opens her mouth to argue but he cuts through her dispute, "I've besmirched your good name."

She was crying now.

"Do you love me, Anna?" John pleaded, his continence stoic save his lips, which twitched, and the vein jumping in his temple. "Could you ever love a man so weak and spineless?"

"I'll always love you," she whispered fiercely.

"Anna, don't cry. I can't bare it. _Please_."

"Did you love her?"

"I thought so, at the time. His Lordship feels I should make restitution."

"And you will." Of course he would, she was loosing him.

"You_ can't_ want to marry me now."

"I don't know. I don't know what I want, but it's not to lose you."

"It doesn't matter; not anymore. Try to forget me, be happy, Anna. For my sake."

**tbc…**


	19. XVII A Change in The Wind

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summary:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XVII. A Change in The Wind **

_November ~ 1915 _

Anna stumbled down the stairs, feet clumsily tripping over the last shards of hope - of her expectations – blasted into smithereens at her feet. It was over, it was over the moment Vera descended into the yard, her testimony like a siren song, enticing John to the jagged rocks and self-destruction. If there were some extenuating circumstance, John would never speak of it now. Not willingly at least, and apart from beating it out of him, which was not an enticing prospect by any stretch of the imagination, Anna was at a loss. Her hands trembled on the banister. Vera's claim was unshakable as long as John's guilt remained so strong.

"Anna."

She blinked, coming back to herself.

"There you are." Mrs. Hughes stood in the threshold of her parlor, something akin to relief in her face. "We've barely seen you today."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes."

The housekeeper shook her head. "It's no matter, I suppose, but if you have a free moment now, I'd like a word."

There was no note of demand in Mrs. Hughes' voice; she was making a request, and an entirely reasonable one at that, but still one Anna felt she did not have the strength to fulfill. She perched awkwardly on the edge of a chair in the housekeeper's sitting room; upholstery coarse, scratchy beneath her palms. A plate full of sandwiches rested on the desk besides a small pitcher and an empty glass. Anna's stomach lurched; she had not eaten anything all day.

"You've chosen the hard way, my girl." Mrs. Hughes said briskly, crossing her desk, picking up the plate.

For the life of her, Anna does not know how to respond to that. While Mrs. Hughes does not seem furious or disappointed, and she…she was both and so much more. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes." The words come to her slowly as if emerging from a thick fog.

"I suspect you are," the housekeeper agreed. She set the plate of sandwiches on the little table besides the chair, Anna's mouth watered. "You must be starving; you were absent at dinner. And luncheon. And breakfast."

She took a sandwich, biting through the crust to the delicious meat and cheese within. "I have no excuse for my actions. They were unprofessional."

"Maybe. If only the heart would bow to propriety." Was it her imagination, a trick of the light, or did the housekeeper appear slightly wistful? "Mr. Carson and I have spoken at length, and we've come to the conclusion that neither one of you will lose your position here."

"Thank you."

"His Lordship and her Ladyship might feel differently, however."

"I understand."

Mrs. Hughes cleared her throat, hands fidgeting before her, "How far did this…courtship progress?"

"Do you mean," She nearly choked on the sandwich, the personal nature of the question stunning and embarrassing; Anna's face felt warm, her body tingling with the flush of humiliation as the older woman clasped and unclasped her hands in a distinctly uncomfortable manner. "Are you asking if Mr. Bates and I…consummated our relationship?"

"I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you, but I need to know what damages might have been accomplished."

"Mr. Bates and I…" her throat tightened, suddenly it was all brutally real. No they had never…and now they would never. Never be anything to each other again; John was gone, he was…she had lost him. "Mr. Bates was a perfect gentlemen." Her eyes were blurring, thick tears obscuring her vision.

"Anna?" Gingerly, Mrs. Hughes touched her shoulder. "It will get better. I promise you that. Who knows, in the end, it may even have been for the best."

~o~O~o~

_Anzac Cove (Gallipoli) _

They leave the dead out in the sun; they have to, there are to many bodies and too few peaceful hours in the day with which to bury them, and even if there was the time, they do not have the means. Most regiments are careful to place their fallen comrades away from the accoutrements of the living, just like most regiments take care when digging their lanterns.

The sight of butchered torsos, body cavities torn open, discarded limbs placed gently in the mass grave beside prospective owners, is simple enough to mend with a spare bit of tarp. It's the crackling smell of rotting flesh exposed to the blistering sun: inescapable, permeating through tents and blankets and the rough material of Thomas' uniform pulled over his nose as he bends over some poor sod who should still be hanging on to his mother's apron strings.

At night the sea breeze drifts over the hills, wrapping their hastily constructed garrison in a cool blanket. Thomas gazes out towards the bay, heedful enough to stand down wind, a fag dangling from his fingers. Below the night sky sparkles across the ocean surface, creating two bevies of bright stars, a matching pair of moons, and two heavens.

Suddenly, he feels a presence at his side.

"Evening, Corporal. At ease."

"Good Evening, Major Foster. Would you care for a smoke?"

"No. No. Thank you." The shorter, plumper man waves away the battered paper box Thomas had extracted from his uniform pocket, sighing, gazing out at his domain: a patchwork of canvas, trench and wood.

"Nothing like a good war to bring out the savage beast in a man," the old bastard chortled. "Still, it's a nasty business. Wouldn't you say, Corporal?"

"I would say, Major, and I do." _And I hope you, and the men like you in Lord Kitchener's bleeding circus, snuff it. That way the rest of us can go home. _

Major Foster gave him a weary smile. "You're a good man, Corporal. Quick, tidy, efficient. The other men pay attention when you talk."

"I like to see things done properly, Sir." Bloody hell, he's beginning to sound like Mr. Carson.

"The powers to be are sending a chap down from London. I intend to show him just how dire our situation is, so I don't want anyone to disturb those bodies, are we clear, Corporal?"

"Crystal clear, sir."

"You'll spread the word? _Unofficially_, of course."

"I will, sir. _Unofficially_, like you say."

"Good man, Barrows. Good man."

~o~O~o~

She rests upon the sheets, cool underneath her palms; the bed beneath her back turned down for sleep. Completely awake in the darkness with nothing to distract her from her racing thoughts but the ticking of the nearby clock and the frantic _thumpthump_ of her heartbeat reverberating in her ears.

Sybil waits so stilly, so quietly for the house to fall asleep. She goes straight to Tom after she's certain the house is abed, taking extra care not to be seen – just in case.

He sat on the workbench, a creased letter in his hand, immobile eyes fixed on the page.

Sybil feels flustered under his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd still be up."

"But you came."

"Yes. I came."

Tom folded the paper, rising slowly to his feet with a yawn. "I knew you would. I knew you would have trouble sleeping."

"How did you know that?"

"I know you. At least, you told me once, that when there's something weighing on your mind it makes falling asleep a bit difficult." He was standing in front of her now: jacket discarded, tie loose, sleeves rolled up past his elbows – unfairly, irresistibly handsome and eternally patient. "How can I help?"

"Would you…" Sybil did not know how to put what she needed into words. How to ask him for something no proper lady ought to ask of a man, much less her parents' chauffer? _I guess I'm not a proper lady, and I don't want to be if being a lady means being unable to ask for what I need, for what I want._ "Will you hold me, Tom?"

Haphazardly, they curl up in the backseat of the motor, one of Tom's legs dangling off of the seat to better accommodate her body, flush against him. She thought of how she had changed: the war, her own fountain of independence, the cost of freedom paid out by hundreds of men, and the threat of peace upon that freedom, the threat of living life like a china doll.

The material of Tom's shirt pricked her cheek, rough but warm, his heartbeat steady. He was no longer dreaming, he was putting his dreams into action, making them come true. "At dinner tonight, all I could think of was how stifling it all is: to have someone there anticipating your every need. And it was only Carson.

"I'm sure stifling you was not Mr. Carson's intention," Tom remarked lightly, his fingers gentle on her lower back, his thumb moving over her hip in a slow, soothing circle.

"I know. It's never my parents' intention either." She buried her face into the starched material of his shirt, her fingers tracing the hardness of his bicep, the strength of working everyday for his living.

"Where would we live?" Sybil whispered into the fabric of Tom's waistcoat, her voice frightfully small. "How?"

His breath tickled the top of her head. "I have money saved. You have a job. I'll have a job, god willing." His fingers were unwinding her hair from its plait, twirling a curl around his finger. "The most important thing is, can you imagine a future with me?"

Yes. It would be a lie to say that she had not, throughout the many cold months of separation, pictured them together, married. Blissfully happy and married. But then the future had been far away, suddenly it was upon her, forcing her to settle the matter. Sybil wanted Tom for her husband, she knew she loved him and that no one else would compare.

"Yes," she admitted finally. "I can imagine sharing my future, sharing my life, with you."

~o~O~o~

_The canisters make popping sounds when the metal hatch is pulled and the top releases. The air sizzles - as if on fire - as smoke rises, the grey fog of gas – not in the direction of the enemy. For a moment, Matthew is blissfully confused, and then it wafts over him, permeating his gas mask. Along the line, men began to scream, their voices louder than the frightened neighing coming out of the cavalry, louder even than the roar of battle. _

"Were have you gone?"

The trench vanished before Matthew's eyes, his vision trading old nightmare for a fantasy of green landscape, and serene beauty as far as the eye could see.

"Matthew?" Mary asked, urgency underling her words.

"Nowhere," Matthew lied, swallowing the remission of fear, pushing it back down into the pit of his stomach, reminding himself where he was: with Mary, walking by the ruins, the turrets of Downton Abbey reaching for the sky behind them. "It was a nice party," he said, hoping to distract her.

Mary nodded. "It was." She looked down at her sleeve, playing with the delicate lace around the cuff. Matthew frowned. She had done the same when bidding Mr. Carlisle farewell; he had watched them from the shadows. Carlisle smile and apparent charm, Mary's shy smile, her coy eyes betraying her bashfulness. "Will you be seeing more of Mr. Carlisle?" Matthew worked to disguise the bitter edge in his voice, from Mary's raised eyebrows, he did not quite manage it.

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," Matthew snapped, stopping in his tracks. Because his feelings had never gone away, and all he could think of was how lovely Mary and Carlisle had looked together last night and this morning.

Mary stopped in her tracks, shifting away from him. "I don't see why when you threw me over."

"I threw you over?" Had she forgotten everything that had taken place between them last year? "You didn't want me if I wasn't going to be the earl. You were only ever interested in me because someday I'll inherit Downton."

"No!" Mary shook her head, "that's not true. You never gave me a chance to explain."

"Then why did you delay?" He watched Mary as she bowed her head, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation of what she might say next.

"Mary?" He prompted when she remained silent for several minutes, and the quiet was more than he could bear.

Finally, she shrugged, lifting her gaze to his, eyes impossibly cold. "It hardly matters now." She began to retreat across the grounds, calling over her shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, cousin Matthew, I'm feeling quite unwell all of a sudden."

~o~O~o~

Tom leads her to a table in the front room. The public house occupies an elongated building painted a dark green; it sat on a pretty corner facing the street near one of the wealthier neighborhoods, which meant the crowd was not so rowdy and the amount of smoke hanging in the air was mild at worst.

Anxiously, Tom shifted his weight from foot to foot. "How do I look?"

Sybil reached out, smoothing the material of his jacket around the shoulders, imaging herself doing this every morning before they headed off to work. The action seemed to steady him, reassure him. She pressed her lips softly to his cheek. "You'll be marvelous."

Tom nodded once, then, grabbed her, one hand on her lower back the other moving to cradle the back of her head, kissing her thoroughly, sweetly, and bravely as if his certainty was absolute, their future written in stone by a predetermined hand.

_This,_ Sybil thinks happily, _is the man I am going to marry_.

~o~O~o~

The sun glinted coldly down from behind a plume of thick, grey clouds, catching Edith painfully in the eye. Mid-apology, she held a gloved hand up to shield her eyes. "I'm sorry if the party was not all you hoped it would be. Once Granny got involved, it was all rather hopeless."

Sir Anthony smiled down at her, patting her hand tucked in at his elbow. "I didn't mind, my dear. Truly. It was a wonderful affair, and a nice reprieve from the war."

"I just wanted to make sure you weren't disappointed."

"Disappointment becomes rather difficult when I'm with you."

Edith flushed. "When we're married, perhaps we'll throw an annual Halloween party."

Sir Anthony bestowed another affectionate pat on her hand. "What pleases my love, pleases me."

They wondered down in the direction of the ruins, the frozen earth under their feet rising sharply. As they reached the crest, Edith caught sight of Mary and Matthew, turned towards each other, apparently in the midst of a heated argument. Her sister assumed a defensive stance, while Matthew gestured excitedly at the house.

"I think I'm feeling a bit of a chill," Edith said. "Lets go back."

Sir Anthony eyed Mary and Matthew. He nodded in understanding. "Yes, I think we'd better."

~o~O~o~

"How are things downstairs, O'Brien?"

"Fine, My Lady." Through the looking glass, Cora smiled at her lady's maid. Everything felt right recently what with Robert and Sybil home, and Matthew. Oh, how splendid he and Mary had looked together the other day!

"Mr. Carson enjoys having the house full again."

"So do I," Cora affirmed. "I was sure that there was something amiss the other night. Are you certain _everything_ is all right?" Normally, Robert did not get up in the middle of the night to tend to issues with the staff.

"Well," O'Brien hesitated, "There is one matter, My Lady. Having to do with Mrs. Bates."

~o~O~o~

_The emaciated woman clutched her baby to her breast, an older child clinging to her ragged skirts. They were both frightened as Bates came towards them. _

_This starving woman was the wife of a Boer partisan, this fatherless family was one of the masses in Bloemfontein. Bates reached into the satchel around his shoulder, withdrawing his ration tin for the whole week. Robert watched the mother flinch away from Bates' hand, holding out the tin. _

"_Go on," he urged. "It's all right. Take it."  
_

After several minutes of gentle coaxing, Bates convinced the mother to take his rations. Robert remembered feeling guilty as she tore open the tin, giving it to the child hiding behind her. They had been like wounded animals, and Bates, despite his occasional rough nature, had been the one to offer compassion. Robert had stood by, made speechless and dumb by his batman's actions. Over the years, he wondered if the family survived Bloemfontein. Many had not.

The door clicked open.

"Carson, good, I wanted to discuss the living arrangements for Mr. and Mrs. Bates. Now Mr. Bates will be returning with me to London in a few days time, but Mrs. Bates has elected to remain at Downton. I think it's fitting to grant them a small cottage, the one closest to the house should do. But I wanted to get your opinion before I make any decisions."

The voice that answered him was dissimilar from Carson's baritone, soft and distinctly feminine. "I'm glad you're asking someone's opinion, Robert."

He turned. Cora stood before him, hands on hips, lips pursed, a clear sign of vexation.

"You didn't tell me Mr. Bates was the reason we were disturbed in the middle of the night."

"Come now, Cora, it was hardly the middle of the night." Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the first stirrings of a migraine.

"Mr. Bates has a wife, while subsequently becoming engaged to our head housemaid."

"I'm sorry. I did not want to bother you."

"More to the point," Cora huffed, unimpressed with his answer, "What are you going to do?"

"I've encouraged Mr. Bates to go back to his wife," Robert said, "I intend to give them a cottage on the estate just as I was going to do for Anna and Mr. Bates before…recent developments."

Cora stared at him, shocked. "You don't think he should be dismissed?"

"No." Robert rose, feeling irritable. He crossed to the sideboard, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch. "I did not think it would aid the situation to sac one or all three of the guilty party."

"Oh, I don't think all three are guilty." Cora said fiercely. "Robert, what kind of message are you sending if we employ a known philanderer?"

"I fancy one of magnanimous leader," he replied dryly.

"So, you don't think keeping Mr. Bates on will tarnish the reputation of Downton? That it will lead to a flood of romances and discord below stairs."

"The reputation of Downton? Since when have you cared about the reputation of Downton?"

Cora froze, mouth parting – Robert could see the argument on her lips – the door opened, interrupting them. Sybil's face appeared around the edge of the door. "Pappa, Mamma."

"What is it, Sybil dear?" Cora asked, blinking back tears. Robert's heart sunk, perhaps he had gone a touch over the line?

"I – that is to say, Tom has something he wants to ask you and Pappa."

The library door opened a little wider, revealing Branson. The chauffer was out of uniform, dressed in a suit that looked, jugging by the fit, like it had been solid cut-rate. "Lord Grantham, your Ladyship, we want to ask for your blessing."

**tbc…**


	20. XVIII A Blessing, or Lack Thereof

**Title:** A Note On Bravery

**Author:** Darcy Roe

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** Robert/Cora, Bates/Anna, Branson/Sybil, Mathew/Mary, William/Daisy, and the unproven but suspected Carson/Hughes.

**Summary:** A long awaited war has finally come to England. Even a place like Downton, ruled by ironclad tradition, will feel the effects of total war. Some will stay others will go, but no one is untouchable, and the fear of death will break down the normal social barriers sweeping the changes of the modern world in and altering the lives of all who live and work at Downton Abbey.

* * *

**XVIII. A Blessing, or Lack Thereof**

_November ~ 1915_

Mrs. Bird barely managed to take the stairs one at a time. She should have stayed at her sister's and not minded the eight children scampering underfoot, touching things with sticky fingers and howling at the slightest provocation. At least one of them was always crying, or hungry, or sick. The mistress had been kind enough to give her and Ellen a bit of a holiday while she was away, and Mrs. Bird would finish hers in the peace and silence of Mrs. Crawley's empty flat. Now, if she could only get there.

The apartment was situated on the top floor of the building. Five flights later, her small suitcase felt like an anchor in her hand, weighing her down, gasping and sweating and clutching the railing for dear life, in the frozen stairwell. If she could just make it to the landing…the flat was only through the first door…she was so blessedly close.

"Goodness!" She puffed, dropping her suitcase the moment she was through the door. "If those stairs won't be the death of me…"

In her winded state, Mrs. Bird overlooked the coats and hats hanging on the coat rack as she hung up her own. She moved into the living room, hand creeping along the wall for the light switch. She was not so sure herself that electricity was entirely safe, but Mrs. Crawley was of the opinion that electricity was a luxury to be taken advantage of and enjoyed, and had not rested until she located an apartment building that utilized the "modern convenience."

The light switched on; Mrs. Bird screamed; the man sleeping on the sofa sprung awake.

"You – you!"

"Mrs. Bird," the man cried, holding up his hands as she tried to beat him with her handbag, "Mrs. Bird! It's me, Mr. Branson! Please, stop!"

The bedroom off the side of the room flew open. "Tom, what's happening?" Lady Sybil asked.

"Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Bird demanded, recognizing the young man as Lord Grantham's revolutionary chauffer.

The chauffer lowered his arms. "It's me, Mrs. Bird."

Lady Sybil, who stood in the doorway of her bedroom, leaning against the frame, bare footed, hair tousled, and dressed in nothing but her nightgown, breathed a sigh of relief, "Thank goodness it's just you, Mrs. Bird."

Mrs. Bird looked from Lady Sybil to Mr. Branson and back again unable not to notice that Mr. Branson was wearing a pair of stripped pajamas and the sofa was covered in a sheet, a pillow hanging off the arm and a blanket twisted on top of the cushions. "What – My Lady, what is Mr. Branson – has something happened to Mr. Matthew?"

"No," Lady Sybil said quickly. "Nothing so calamitous."

"Why don't you sit down, Mrs. Bird." Mr. Branson gently took her by the arm, guided her into a chair. "Sybil, I'll go and make a pot of tea."

"Thank you, Tom."

Their eyes caught and clasped until Mr. Branson disappeared into the kitchen. Practically glowing, Lady Sybil turned back to her, settling gracefully down in the opposite chair. "You see, Mrs. Bird, Tom and I have recently become engaged…"

~o~O~o~

It hardly matters. None of it. Not the gust of cold air pricking at her exposed skin, drawing blotches of scarlet to the surface; not the pounding of her heart against her ribs, duplicated in her ears; not her disbelief that Matthew wanted to drag everything up again, rend open old wounds to expose the badly mended feelings.

_It hardly matters, it hardly matters. None of it._ Mary bore her teeth, hoping the razors edge would dull off the words, so she might believe her own lie. She cannot feel the warmth, opening its arms to engulf her, as she steps smoothly over the threshold, her footsteps never faltering: she is frozen through to her heart.

_Haven't you heard? I don't have a heart. _

And that hardly matters either.

Carson appeared, out of thin air it seemed, as if he knew she would enter the house at that precise moment and need someone to assist her with her coat. He was dressed for the afternoon; the dressing gong would ring soon, which meant there was a full night of persistently avoiding Matthew ahead of her. And no future before her, because she had been stupid and licentious one night out of thousands.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sir Anthony was removing Edith's gloves, drawing them slowly down over her hands, raising her bare knuckles to his lips.

Mary felt her eyes smarted, a road sign leading straight to pitiable. _It hardly matters. It hardly matters. _

"Mary."

She closed her eyes against that voice, so she would not have to look into his eyes.

"I FORBID IT!"

~o~O~o~

"Our blessing," her father repeated. The hair stood to attention at the nape of Tom's neck, the tension filling the air like the powerful current preceding a big storm. "Our blessing for what exactly?"

Sybil reached for his hand; Tom did not miss the way her mother's eyes followed the movement, widening as their hands slid together - a lady's skin pressed against a servant's - their fingers interlocked.

He was possibly scared, more intimidated now than when he had stepped into the back room at that pub, prepared to do anything short of begging for the job. At least then he knew Mr. Deaglan was – as a politician – likely to be two-faced and deceiving.

"Tom and I…" Sybil faltered, her eyes sweeping to the carpet at her parents' feet, to the curtains behind them.

Tom gave her hand a slight squeeze. Courage he wants to tell her and tries to convey bravery through his touch. "Your daughter and I have spent time getting to know each other, and we've fallen in love, and I've asked her to marry me." He felt her free hand move over their clasped ones.

Sybil threw back her shoulders, her voice clam and clear. "And I accepted." Her hands trembled against his; Tom's knees were shaking.

Lord Grantham stares at them, mouth open in bewilderment, but her Ladyship had caught on much faster, the diamonds in her ears catch the fading sunlight streaming through the library window, glinting as hard as her eyes. She shakes her head, "No. Sybil - "

"My God," his Lordship's face turned white, then purple, the rage clearly depicted on his face. "This had better be some kind of joke," he informed them, his voice low and hard, daring them to disobey.

"It's not a joke, Pappa."

"I love your daughter and she loves me. We want to marry - "

"Absolutely not!" Her father laughed, disbelievingly. "My goodness, its preposterous. It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. An earl's daughter married to a servant."

"I'm not a servant!" Tom snapped. "I handed in my notice to Mr. Carson this afternoon, after I received a job as a political aid."

"We want to marry." Sybil asserted, "And we would prefer to do so with your blessing. But lack of your approval shall not stop us."

"Sybil," her mother whispered, her face ghostly white, matching her daughter's frightened complexion. "Think of what people will say."

"I don't care what people will say!"

Her mother's tone dropped, hushed and urgent. "You won't be accepted in society. You'll be thrown out by every reputable circle."

"I don't care whether I'm accepted in a stuffy ballroom, crowded with people who I don't care for much less agree with. A crowd of gossiping women and boring men won't persuade me!"

"Forgive me, Lady Grantham," Tom said, "But your idea of society is rather limited."

"That's enough, out of you!" Lord Grantham roared, banging his glass down on the sideboard. The glass cracked and scotch ran down the sides. "You've already said enough: you've convinced my daughter into going along with this…this farce of a - "

"If you knew your daughter, My Lord, you would know she's incapable of being convinced into doing something she does not believe in!"

"Tom!" Sybil turned to him, lip trembling and eyes full of tears, her back on her parents, her hand on his chest as if she would steady him. "Come on, let's just leave. I didn't want to do this. I told you it wouldn't work."

"I'm sorry," Tom apologized, letting her lead him out the door.

"Sybil!" Lady Grantham shouted after them. "Robert, we need to talk about this rationally!"

"There's nothing to talk about. I FORBID IT! If she leaves with him, I'll cut her off."

"Robert!"

~o~O~o~

Sybil spun around, anger solidified in her chest above a mantle of disappointment. "It's not within your power to keep me from doing anything, Pappa. I am an adult and I love Tom." She pulled her fiancé more firmly towards the door. They stepped into the hallway together, facing a wall of shocked faces, her father's voice had drawn at least half the staff and most of her family.

She met Anna's eyes first, the astonishment matched Edith and Mary's, though both her sisters appeared horrified. Matthew and Isobel just seemed stunned.

_I'm sorry._ Sybil tried to say silently to Mrs. Hughes, standing beside an irate Mr. Carson. _I'm sorry I lied to you and I'm not sorry, too. _

"Tom," Sybil urged. They collected their luggage from the spot where she had hidden it, with their coats and hats and everything else they would need from the airing cupboard, thankful for her foresight, for the quick escape. Tom had been hopeful, he thought they could convince her parents, talk them round, make them understand.

_Maybe one day. _

"Sybil," Mrs. Crawley said, breaking the tense silence stretching up to the top of the vaulted foray. "Where will you go?" She asked.

"Back to London, that's where our jobs are."

"Will I see you?"

"Yes, if you want." Sybil lifted her voice, staring at Mary and Edith in turn. "Anyone who wants to see me – us - will be able to."

Mrs. Crawley drew her into a hug, kissed her cheek. "I'll see you – and Branson - at the end of the week then, my dear."

Sybil tried not to cry at their egress, devoting all her will power into placing one foot before the other and walking away from her home. She did not give a fig for the luxury she was giving up, but her family…

Tom peered down at her every few seconds, concerned.

"Let me carry that." He reached to take her suitcase from her.

Sybil pulled it away. "I can manage, Tom."

"I know you can manage, I just want to make your load easier to bare - "

"Sybil!"

Through the fading light, Sybil could make out a figure stumbling towards them. "Sybil, wait!" Edith shouted. Her sister was panting by the time she reached them, her hands flying to her chest as she bent over, wheezing and gasping, "Why?" Edith demanded. "Why Branson? Why is he so special that you're willing to give everything up? "

"Because I love him. And I wish Mamma and Pappa could love him too but…" Sybil wiped the tears off her cheeks.

Edith looked up at Tom, furious. "Will you treat my sister with the dignity befitting a lady of her station?"

"You need never doubt it," Tom answered without missing a beat.

"I don't know how this will turn out," Edith glared at Tom, "But you're my sister, and I can't be expected to just let you go."

"Thank you," Sybil whispered, throwing her arms around Edith. "Thank you for understanding."

"I don't, not in the least, but I'll try." When they drew apart, Edith was crying too. "You'll still come to my wedding, won't you?"

**tbc…**

* * *

**a/n: **I'm not positive that the apartment would have electricity. From my research some places had electricity as early as 1890. By the 1930s everyone (except for people living in isolated, rural areas) had it. Between 1890 and 1930 it appears that electricity was used (especially in cities), but whether or not an apartment building had it depended on who the owner/landlord was.


End file.
